Growing Flowers
by lamentomori
Summary: Relationships are like flowers, they have to be tended to carefully in order to flourish. Sequel to Visiting Graves. Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.
1. Embryogenesis

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Profanity.

* * *

Jon sits and stares out of the window. Usually in situations like this, trapped thirty thousand feet in the air, with little hope of escape, he lets his mind wander, lets it map out possibilities, different scenarios, possible outcomes for every event he can come up with, but today it's infuriatingly quiet. He's grimly aware of the _why_ of the silence. It had been a stupid question, he'd known it was a stupid question, and yet he'd asked it. He'd asked and exactly what he'd expected to happen, had. Phil remains difficult for Jon, difficult but interesting, if nothing else, he's not bored yet. It's been weeks and that strange itchy feeling his mind usually gets by now hasn't come over him yet, the worms in the pit of his stomach haven't abated either. Every second in Phil's company, they're there, squirming, wriggling, making him feel slightly sick, but it's not the itchiness, and Jon takes that as a good sign.

_Are you coming?_

It'd been an innocuous question on the surface, but the surface was easily breached.

_Are you coming?_ That was the question Jon had asked, a simple inquiry as to Phil's travel plans. Only it was more than that, it was a whole host of other questions. Are you going to come to Mania to see me, are you going to come back to the WWE, are you going to ever tell me why you left in the first place, do you miss me when I'm not here, do you want me to miss you when I'm not here, will you come with me, will you be there for me? Those were the questions Jon was really asking and Phil had known it, had barely paused before he answered _no_. Two little letters. Two little letters that make the most powerful word in the English language.

Are you coming?

No.

_Are you going to come to Mania to see me? _

_No._

_Are you going to come back to the WWE? _

_No._

_Are you ever going to tell me why you left in the first place? _

_No._

_Do you miss me when I'm not here? _

_No._

_Do you want me to miss you when I'm not here? _

_No._

_Will you come with me? _

_No._

_Will you be there for me? _

_No, no, no._

All those unasked questions, each answered in one little but so very powerful word. Yet, to say that there'd been a fight over it would be a lie. For all Jon is unpredictable, for all he likes to fling words, he'd not relished the prospect of getting into it with Phil, but he's not been given that chance. Phil left, plainly, simply left, and Jon hasn't heard from him since. Being in a relationship isn't quite what Jon expected, he misses the easiness of fucking Punk, confusing and capricious as he could be, at least he was something Jon could grasp, at least there was something like rules, understanding at least. Phil is a bewilderingly different creature sometimes, the glimmers of Punk are stronger as time passes, but they're wrapped up in this confusing mess of Phil.

"C'mon." Joe smacks Jon on the back and he stands, scrubbing at his face.

"Woman trouble?" Colby laughs and joins in the communal backslapping. Jon laughs absently, and runs a hand through his hair.

"A face like that? _Always_ woman trouble." Joe squeezes Jon's cheeks and laughs. "C'mon, if we're quick maybe we can sneak past the hordes."

"Not a chance." Colby mutters, looking nervously out of the window at the runway. "We're gonna get molested."

"Oh goody." Jon smirks at his teammates. "_That'll_ take my mind off things." He laughs and leads the charge off the plane and towards the baying crowd in the airport. He's in no mood for these people, he's not really in the mood for anybody who isn't a scruffy, ill tempered, cuddly Chicago bred bastard, who's still in Chicago, at least.

"You _seriously_ want me to sign it _Scotty?_ I'm gonna have to charge you $50 for it, man." Jon knows that voice, and whilst he's a Chicago bred bastard, he's the wrong one. "Okay, okay! Thanksss." Cabana turns from the little gaggle of Indy fans, and bumps right into Jon.

"Hello." Jon's given up trying to read Colt, the man has the same Chicago bred bastard unreadable eyes as Phil, the only difference is instead of mild irritation, Cabana's default setting is mild geniality.

"Mr Ambrose! How nice to see you! Can we talk? Is now good? Now is good? Oh good!" His hand wraps around Jon's bicep and he starts walking, dragging Jon purposefully away from people, towards some over-priced airport cafe. "What the fuck did you do?" He snarls, sitting down, and pretends to look through the menu.

"I didn't _do_ anything." Jon snaps back, feeling on the defensive already.

"So Punkers is hiding out at my place because you did _nothing_?" His eyebrow raises, eyes narrowed.

"That's where he is?" Jon mutters, and sighs, looking away. "I asked him if he was coming down for Mania." Cabana snorts, and Jon looks over at him. "What? I know it was a stupid question... It's just..." Jon sighs again; he's growing sick of feeling like a little kid around Phil's best friend. "Look, I-"

"Sorry." Cabana cuts in, looks genuinely apologetic, and as is normal for dealing with him, Jon feels on the back foot. "Punkers is still... _Prickly_ about wrestling. I should have warned you." He tosses Jon the menu. "Order something, my treat." He smiles easily, and flags a waitress over, flirting ineptly whilst placing his order, Jon simply has the same and the woman goes away.

"Why? What's he told you?" Here Cabana laughs, as though it should be obvious that Phil's told him _everything_, has probably relayed in exacting detail what happened between himself, Vince, and Paul that morning. "Why won't he tell me?" Jon sighs again. He thinks this is getting too dramatic for him, that being with Phil, might be too much hassle, but the worms awaken at the thought of walking away from Phil, not the itchiness, so he stays put, watching Cabana texting someone.

"The beloved." He holds the cell up, so Jon can see the screen.

_I can't just tell him, Colt! It's not important. Besides, I told him that I was no good for giving him a leg up, if that's what he wanted, he barked up the wrong tree! He got stuck in a relationship instead! Do you think I should go? I don't want to but do you think he'll change his mind again if I don't? I know, I'm being a girl. Going to watch True Detectives and eat ice cream. When you get home, you'll have no ice cream, well you will but it won't be this ice cream, because I'll have eaten it. _

Phil it seems really does relay everything to his best friend, a stab of jealousy fills Jon at hearing Cabana calling him beloved, but the memory of being laughed at after accusing him of being _Mr Rebound_ comes to Jon, slight exasperation replaces jealousy easily. There's nothing to be jealous of about their friendship, other than having someone who knows you completely, though in all honesty, that is possibly something Jon is more than a little jealous of.

"He gets written diarrhoea when he's worried." Cabana laughs, and sets the phone down.

"_Answer him_." The thought of Phil sitting alone, eating ice cream, watching TV and worrying about Jon, makes him feel terrible, makes him want to be there for him, right then cuddling on the couch sounds perfect to him.

"I will, eventually." Cabana shrugs, taking his order from the waitress and pushing food around his plate. "Hasn't he told you _anything_?" Jon shakes his head and sips at his drink.

"Nope." He takes a bite, and scrubs at his face. "Is he always..."

"Difficult?" Cabana laughs, nodding. "Very, constantly, perpetually, all of the time, but that's Punkers."

"Great." Jon eats more of his food, the worms feel like they're rebelling at its introduction, roiling even more, but it seems like it would be rude to ignore the over-priced food in favour of feeling mildly unwell.

"I warned you, man." Cabana laughs, and Jon scowls at him. "What? I did!" He protests, somehow managing to look thoroughly innocent.

"You kept fucking telling me Punk was dead. How the hell is that warning me?" Jon snaps, sipping at his drink, feeling torn between petulant and annoyed.

"Punkers, _Phil, _isn't Punk... I warned you, fair and square." Cabana shrugs, setting his cutlery down, and picking his cell back up, typing at it. Jon tries to see what he's writing back, but gives it up as a lost cause.

"Yeah, _fair and square_. Fucking Chicago bastards, none of you make any fucking sense." Jon mutters, vaguely recalling saying something rather similar to Phil not too long ago. Rehashing conversions with Chicago bred bastards something Jon thinks he's going to have to get painfully familiar with.

"I make perfect sense!" Cabana sounds mildly offended, and finishes his drink.

"I'm willing to bet the only person who actually understands you is Punk." Jon pushes his plate towards the middle of the table, and smirks as Cabana rubs the back of his neck. A grin spreads over Jon's lips, it's not often he scores one over the Second City Saints; it makes him feel rather smug.

"Two peas in a pod." Cabana mutters, as his cell beeps again. "Oh for fuck sake. Here." He tosses a twenty on the table and stands. "Look, my advice, and I know you didn't ask for it, but you're getting it anyways, is after Mania, go to Vegas. No matter what, go to Vegas." Cabana leaves Jon sitting alone, to answer his cell, swearing profusely at whoever is on the other end of the line.

Going back to Vegas wasn't exactly what Jon had wanted to do, he'd wanted to go to Chicago but Phil had been silent, no texts, no calls, no acknowledgement of any of Jon's attempts at communication, in a moment of desperation, he'd even sent a dm on Twitter, but that too had gone ignored. It's galling that there should be moments of desperation. Jon doesn't do desperation, at least not in this context and yet as ever, for Phil it seems what Jon does and doesn't do goes out of the window. Yet, Cabana's advice won't leave him peace, the almost order to go back here stays with him, so Jon does as he was bid. It's not something he does often, but between the worms and Cabana, he doesn't feel like arguing much, sometimes it's better to do as you're told and accept the way the cards fall. It might not be what he wants to do, but it seems like Cabana is on Jon's side in this whole _thing_ with Phil, so trusting him is _probably_ a good idea, so he comes to Vegas, ignoring the urge to fly to O'Hare instead.

The trip back was uneventful; Jon spent most of the flight feeling at once buzzing with energy and utterly drained. He pinned it all on post-Mania blues, and not the persistent radio silence from Phil.

"Hi." Phil's voice comes as a surprise. He was the very last thing Jon expected to see on his doorstep. Truly, it seems that Cabana is playing at relationship counsellor for them. "Thought I'd come check out Vegas." He's smiling slightly, something unsettled in his eyes. Jon nods vaguely.

"Was thinking of going on holiday, you're lucky I'm here." Jon mutters and opens the door to his apartment, letting Phil in. He doesn't mention he'd come here on the vague orders of Colt, it seems rather like a given, Phil was probably sent on them too.

"Luck is for losers, Jon." He laughs, and stops just in the door. "It's bare." He gestures at the empty apartment, Jon shrugs.

"Does the job." Jon's arms wrap around Phil's waist, pulling him closer, so that his back is flush with Jon's chest. "You stopped being a girl?" He asks softly, lips pressing kisses to Phil's throat.

"You and my mom been talking again?" He laughs, and turns in Jon's arms, kissing him carefully, as though slightly uncertain how welcome his kiss will be.

"He's a chatty bastard." Jon shrugs, kissing Phil firmly, hands squeezing his waist gently. "Wanna take the tour?" He laughs and nods.

"Can't wait... Oh!" He pulls away from Jon, and starts rooting around in the bag he has with him. "Present." He hands Jon a box of chocolates, it looks expensive and Jon isn't quite sure what to do with it, other than eat the contents, it's entirely unexpected, and kind of makes him wish he had something to give in return. "You don't strike me as the flowers type..." Phil glances up at him, his expression infuriatingly unreadable.

"Nope, you're the _girl_." Jon tilts his chin up and kisses him. "Chocolate kind of seems more like a present for you though." Jon tosses the box on the sofa, and catches Phil's wrist. "So tour?" He leads to the way into the kitchen. "All the modern conveniences, microwave, juicer..."

"A stove that's never been used?" Phil laughs and Jon shrugs.

"Hmm... Feel free to pop its cherry. The living room, TV, table, couch."

"Very nice. I like the whole never used look, very _modern_." Phil mutters, and Jon shrugs again. "Do we get to pop the couch's cherry too?" He steps closer, leaning against Jon's side and whispers in his ear. Jon snorts and nods.

"Oh yeah, there'll be plenty of _popping_ on it, later." He grins and Phil rolls his eyes. "And finally, the bedroom." Phil steps away from Jon and toes his shoes off, before flopping on the bed, looking up at him with a grin.

"Very nice." He pats space beside him. "You look like shit, c'mon sleep." Jon shakes his head and kicks his sneakers off, then settles down on the bed by Phil. "We can pop cherries in a bit, yeah?"

"The one cherry I'd like was popped long ago." Jon laughs, and Phil smacks his chest lightly, then snuggles up against him.

"I'm sure you'll get over it." He mutters, pulling Jon closer. "Go to sleep and I'll consider cooking for you."

"You cook?" Honestly, the thought of Phil cooking amuses him, the amount of burnt coffee grinds Jon's watched him throw away has him worried, but maybe it's just coffee that hates Phil.

"I'm not a child, Jon." He mutters, sounding half-asleep already. "I can mostly cook, you got any food in?"

"I've got a selection of takeout places that deliver's numbers." Jon snakes one arm around Phil's shoulders and tugs him to rest against his chest, one hand running through his hair. "I highly recommend the Italian place." He yawns and kisses Phil's head. "Cook me breakfast instead. I'll take you to the store after dinner."

"Shopping, popping, we've a busy evening planned." Phil murmurs, Jon nods vaguely and yawns again.

"Go to sleep." Jon swats the back of his head, now that a nap has been offered, he feels tired, sleep is something he'd like right about now.

"Gimmick infringement." Phil squirms, moving to lie on his stomach, head still on Jon's chest.

"You ain't got a gimmick, Phil." Jon glances down at the top of his head.

"Punk, call me Punk, Phil's..." He sighs and shakes his head. "Just Punk, okay?" Jon shakes his head and sighs, _sphinx bastard_. It feels like Jon's going to have to take some kind of course in understanding Chicago bred bastards, there has to be one in the freezing hole of a city somewhere.

"Fine, but you still don't have a gimmick, Punk." Jon kisses his hair, and yawns once more.

"Do too. Sleeping now." He kisses the underside of Jon's chin, and gives an overstated snore.

"Good, noisy bastard." Jon mutters, and closes his eyes.

"Love you too." The sentiment makes him freeze, _love_? The worms decide then that no matter how much he _wants_ this nap, he's not getting it.

* * *

_So... This wasn't quite what I wanted to write but it seems that Dean and I only manage to agree on writing something when everything else is being uncooperative... so as ever, as he and I aren't friends by a long shot, __I'd appreciate any all comments on my interpretation on the tricky little shit that is Mr Ambrose._

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	2. Zygote

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk),Smut, Profanity.

* * *

He could, Jon supposed, lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, stomach roiling, mind whirring, thinking very carefully of anything but what Punk just said, but it won't accomplish much, and ignoring his mind is never easy.

_Love you too._

A simple phrase but not really one Jon was anywhere near prepared to hear. _Love_ isn't something he feels for Punk, not yet, maybe not ever, and that brings up a whole host of other problems. Barrel-chested, mildly genial, castration based problems. Jon sighs, and shifts, restless beneath the solid weight of Punk. The sleeping man shifts, snuffling at Jon's neck, his breath and hair tickly. Jon sighs, and runs his fingers through Punk's hair, getting a pleased sounding snuffle, and more squirming for his actions. He stares up at the white ceiling, and firmly ignores the worms. He wonders vaguely if he should ask HBK about fishing the next time he sees the man, there has to be some use for worms beyond making him feel ill. Punk squirms in Jon's arms, rolling onto his side, his arms wrapping around himself. Jon lies staring at the sleeping man's back. His hand reaches out, runs down Punk's spine gently, even through his clothes Punk's body heat is palpable. Jon moves closer, resting on his own side, holding Punk close, his chin resting on top of Punk's messy hair. The worms wriggle, and squirm, but quiet down the longer Jon lies there holding Punk.

No matter how tranquil the worms are, Jon's mind refuses to rest, it's flits from topic to topic before resting on the text message Cabana had flashed at him in that airport cafe. Punk fearing that Jon would change his mind, worried that Jon would once more decide that he was too much hassle and leave him, _again_. However, as Jon thinks on it, did he really _leave_ Punk that first time? He just ignored him, just didn't reply to his attempts at contact, rather like Punk over Wrestlemania, Jon had maintained radio silence. Punk squirms again, his sleep seemingly restless, one of his hands stretched out on the pillow, fingers searching, grabbing for something. He makes a softly distressed noise, and Jon squirms slightly to nose at the back his neck.

"Shh... It's okay, I'm here, baby." Jon's quite certain that trying that particular cutesy pet-name would get him kicked in the balls, and out of his own apartment were Punk awake, but asleep it seems to quieten him down. Jon moves his arm, and takes Punk's hand in his own, his thumb moving of the bony knuckles. He closes his eyes, his face buried in Punk's hair. "You better not get spooked, sphinx bastard." Jon mumbles, if something jolts Punk from his sleep now, Jon's looking at a broken nose. He lies behind Punk, inhaling his scent, his mind meandering, once more returning to the idea of leaving Punk. It's a strange idea to have become fixated on, but with every other lover he's taken by now Jon has felt itchy, like he needed to be rid of them. Leaving them had been easy; the only difficult thing about it had been finding a reason or method that would discourage them from wanting to try again. Yet leaving Punk, it's not something, at this stage at least, that Jon's certain he could do. Even far too many miles from Punk to be able to, when he'd read that message on Cabana's cell, all Jon had wanted to do was bundle Punk up in his arms. Jon sighs grimly, all Punk has to do is roll over in his sleep and Jon has him bundled up in his arms. When his dreams are anything but sweet, Jon's there to shush him down, and cradle him close. This is definitely not a position Jon's found himself in before, if anything he's been cast in the Punk role before. People see him as _damaged_, want to comfort him, want to wrap him up, and Jon doesn't need that, doesn't want it. He's not sure if that's a weakness on his part or Punk's though. How much strength is there in being vulnerable? He sighs, and gets off the bed, being static, being still, it's generally a bad idea for him. That's possibly the hardest part of being with _Phil_. This Punk, unlike the Punk who was _only_ Punk, is unfathomably fond of stillness, is distressingly capable of being in one place for hours on end. Punk who was only Punk was incapable of not moving, some little involuntary twitch, and some restless bounce of a knee, something, _anything_; as though he were a shark and he had to move to stay alive. Sometimes, Jon feels like that, feels like being still is too much for him to handle. He stretches and steps away from the bed, as if on cue, as soon as he's too far from Punk, his stomach rebels, worms wriggling and flailing. He sighs, and leaves Punk sleeping to go order food.

"Hey, wake up." Jon's hand skims through Punk's hair, waking him gently from his nap, getting confused owlish blinking in response. "I ordered Italian." Jon thinks he must look strange, because Punk is staring at him, something odd in his eyes, something unsettlingly critical, the same science project look Cabana gets.

"You didn't sleep." He says, voice croaky and soft from having just woken up, but there's an undercurrent of disapproving scorn.

"Too much energy." Jon shrugs, it's not quite true, but it's not quite a lie, even so, it feels uncomfortably close to both. There's a knock on the door, and he's grateful that the delivery driver's there so quickly. Punk's gaze had been heavy, fat too heavy for Jon to comfortably endure and he needed to get away from it. He pays the delivery guy, and carries the containers of food to the living room. Punk's sitting on the couch, the TV on for maybe the third time since Jon bought it, flicking through stations.

"I'm surprised you've got more than basic." Punk smiles at him, and Jon shrugs, heading for the kitchen, basic cable seemed too cheap even for him. "Ooo..." Punk grins, the TV playing_ The Grinch_. "I know you're a fan." He says with an easy laugh, and Jon shakes his head, returning with forks.

"You're really gonna watch this?" He sits by Punk, who looks over at him with a big shit-eating grin that makes him look much more like the Punk who was only Punk.

"You object?" He sets the remote on the cushion between them, and starts opening containers. The scent of the food makes Jon's stomach grumble, so he ignores the TV in favour of joining in the opening. "You planning on feeding the five thousand?" Punk asks him, once all of the food is uncovered.

"I think you'll find there's substantially more than two loaves and fives fishes here." Jon laughs, turning to face Punk's scowling face. "What?"

"_Fish_, it's a fucking plural already, like sheep and deer and offspring." He stabs at some pasta, biting it off the fork, scowl still on his lips.

"Pedantic little shit, aren't you?" Jon laughs, picking olives out of one pot with his fingers. "You ever think of being a teacher, Punk?" He grins over at Punk, who's still scowling, and stabbing pasta like it offended him personally.

"What? _No_." Punk shakes his head, turning to look at Jon. "I'd be terrible at it. I'm pretty sure swearing at children would be frowned upon." He smiles slightly, and steals the olive between Jon's fingers. "_Yewuch_. How the fuck can you eat those things?" He scrunches his nose up, pulling an exaggeratedly disgusted face. Jon catches the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

"Like many of the _finer_ things in life, they're an acquired taste." Jon kisses him, chasing the taste of olives, mingled in with the flavour of Punk. "_Yummy_." He smirks, letting Punk go, and returning to polishing off the olives.

"Whatever." Punk grabs the pot of pasta he seems to have decided he likes and tucks his feet up under himself, his attention caught by the far from seasonal kids' movie on the screen. They eat in companionable silence, Punk getting tired of eating far quicker than Jon, curling up on the opposite side of the couch, half-watching TV, half-watching Jon. The weight of his gaze is damn near tangible, and Jon wishes that he knew how to either shrug it off or be able to tolerate it better. Chicago bred bastards and their weighty, evaluating, judging, pre-empting, scheming stares are the bane of his life.

"So, _popping_?" Jon turns to him with a grin, once the last of the antipasti's finished, the containers scattered on the table. He reaches over to Punk and pulls him close, kissing him firmly.

"_Ich..._" Punk pulls away from him; a frown on his face. Jon rolls his eyes, and pushes Punk from him.

"Lie down." Jon's hands are pulling Punk's clothes from him even as he tries to comply with the request to lie down. Eventually, he's naked, sprawled on the couch before Jon.

"Wait... Lube?" He looks up at Jon, eyebrow raised, and Jon frowns, trying to think if he has any lube in this house. "Oh for fuck sake, my bag. Wait and I'll-"

"Nope. You stay there. You're not getting to walk around all naked and shit." Jon mutters, running a hand down Punk's chest, and pushing against him slightly, forcing him to lie once more. "I'll get it."

"Hurry up, then. Little pocket on the inside." Punk licks his palm and slowly starts jacking himself off. Jon stands watching him, his cock firming up under his actions. He spreads his legs a little, bracing his feet on the sofa's cushions and starts to fuck his hand, the head of his cock appearing and disappearing rapidly. Jon makes an inarticulate noise, and undoes his fly "_Ahem!_" His eyes flicker to Punk's face, something mildly irritated there. "Lube?"

"Right, right, yeah..." Jon shakes his head, and tugs his shirt over his head. "Lube." He reluctantly turns from Punk. He'd almost be willing to sit back and watch Punk pop the couch's cherry all on his lonesome, there are few sights more visually appealing than Punk playing with himself. When he returns, Punk is hard, a little pre-cum leaking from the tip of his cock, his eyes _just_ on the edge of glassy in arousal. "Look at you, all wet." Jon swipes at the head of Punk's cock, and raises his finger to Punk's lips, his tongue laps at the drop of fluid. "Do you taste good? Hmm, Punk?" You thinkin' bout me?" Jon shucks the rest of his clothes and settles between Punk's thighs. He leans forward and kisses Punk again, but he pulls away, disgust on his face once more.

"_Still_ taste like olives." He mutters, his nose crinkling once more, his hands pushing at Jon's shoulders, his tongue flicking over his lips. Jon laughs and mouths his way down Punk's chest, nibbling at his nipples lightly, fingers stroking up his sides to pinch at the little nubs of flesh, as his mouth moves further down Punk's body.

"Gimme something to get the taste outta my mouth then." Jon speaks against the skin of Punk's stomach, just below his tattoo. "You taste so good, Punk." He mutters, licking a stripe over the inked letters, absently imaging each one tasting a little different, the vowels a little stronger, sharper than the more mellow, sweet consonants. Punk groans, a soft cross between annoyed and aroused.

"You gonna soundtrack this all the way?" Jon nips at his hipbone, drawing a moan from him, one leg moving to rest its foot on the floor. "Cause if you are, I might just buy earplugs."

"Hmm, empty threat." Jon nips at the other hip, and licks up the underside of Punk's cock, wrenching a softly panted _fuck_ from his lips.

"I might." He moans, his hands moving to Jon's head, carding through his hair. "I might not, but there's always a chance I will." His hips buck as Jon engulfs the head of his cock. "More." He pants, and Jon sets the bottle of lube on his stomach.

"Open that." Jon pulls back from Punk's cock long enough to tell him, and then returns to suckling on it, his tongue swirling around the head, lapping up every drop of pre-cum Punk produces. He watches Punk through half-lidded eyes, watches him trying to coordinate himself enough to open the bottle. It's reassuringly amusing watching Punk struggle with something so mundane whilst being pleasured by him. Eventually, the cap is off, and Jon holds a hand out, a little of the lube is dribbled onto his fingers, and he pulls away from Punk's cock.

"No..." Punk groans, the foot on the floor being lifted, its leg wrapping around Jon.

"Aww, you wanted me to suck you dry? Drink down your cum? Get rid of the nasty taste of olives, huh?" Jon smirks at him, and Punk rolls his eyes, his foot pushing Jon away instead of drawing him closer.

"There are times I consider cutting out your tongue." Punk mutters, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"When you tear out a man's tongue, you are not proving him a liar, you're only telling the world that you fear what he might say." Jon smirks at him, and Punk looks at him. "What? I like Tyrion... He has all the _good_ lines." Jon slides a finger inside of Punk, smirk growing, as Punk doesn't bother replying, instead, arching his back and moaning. A second finger is added to Punk's body quickly, his hips moving in time with the thrusts Jon is making. "That's it, lemme in." Jon mumbles against Punk's collarbone as he works a third, then fourth finger into him. "You know... It'd be hot if you could take my _whole_ hand." Jon tries to keep the smirk out of his voice, he's sure he knows how Punk will react to that statement.

"_Try it_." His voice is a dangerous little hiss, as Jon had expected. "_Just fucking try it, and see how far you get_." Jon kisses his temple, and withdraws his fingers from Punk.

"Hmm..." He pours more lube over his cock, and nudges it against Punk's asshole. "I already got your mom threatening to cut my balls off, don't need you doing it too." He kisses Punk's temple again and thrusts into him rapidly, burying his cock inside of Punk fully without warning. Punk gasps, his back arching off the couch, his legs wrapping around Jon's waist.

"_Fuck_! Warn me." He snaps, his hands restlessly clawing at Jon's shoulder blades, the little stings of distressingly pleasurable pain sending shivers down Jon's spine. "When did Colt threaten to castrate you?" He asks eventually, his hands movements slowed to soft strokes, his legs squeezing Jon gently as he talks.

"So you'll have a chat about your Cabana during sex, but if I mention all the things I'd do to you, I get told to shut up." Jon snorts, pulling out slightly. "Unfair bastard." He trusts forward, rocking his hips slowly, fucking him slowly like this for a while before answering his question. "A few weeks ago, when I went to you in Chicago." Punk stares up at him, confusion clouding his eyes.

"Huh? Few weeks ago?" Jon shakes his head, leaning down to kiss Punk, hard and fast, a counter to the gentle rocking thrusts of his hips.

"You like this... So _lost..._ It's perfect, you know that?" Jon mutters, and begins fucking Punk, truly fucking him, thrusts hard and firm, hands groping and grabbing at him, kisses more like battles of teeth, tongue and lips. Jon can feel his orgasm building rapidly, can feel it churning in the pit of his stomach. "Come on, Punk." He gasps into Punk's ear, snagging the lobe between his teeth briefly. "Gonna fill you up, but I wanna see you to come first. Come for me?" Punk's eyes snap open, his hand wraps around his cock, and he strokes slowly.

"I make you come first, next time you shut _the fuck _up." He groans, his body squeezing Jon's length tightly, a low moan escapes Jon.

"Deal." Jon moans again, fucking into Punk's clenching body firmly. He tries to hold on, tries to resist the way Punk feels around him, but it's a losing battle. He comes with an inarticulate noise, his face against Punk's neck and the feeling of Punk's hand bumping against his stomach, as he chases his own orgasm.

"I win." He sounds unreasonably smug. Jon kisses him, and tastes the exact moment Punk climaxes, his cum spreads over his fingers, damp between their stomachs. Jon breaks the kiss and leans back, watches as Punk raises his hand to his lips, intending to lick his own cum from the long digits.

"Gimme." Jon grabs his wrist and licks the cum up, leaving Punk's hand shining with saliva, but clean. It takes some careful manoeuvring but eventually, Jon ends up on his back, Punk's head resting on his shoulder, their legs tangled.

"Where you off to on Monday?" Punk asks eventually, his fingers drawing absent shapes on Jon's chest.

"Birmingham. You gonna stay till then?" Punk nods absently, kissing the underside of Jon's chin, nuzzling against his throat lightly. Instead of answering, or even addressing that nod, Jon runs his hand through Punk's damp hair, smoothing it back, tilting his face up to him. "Gomez Addams was always an interesting look for you." Jon mutters, smoothing Punk's hair back more, smirking slightly at him.

"It was Gordon Gekko inspired." Punk mutters, dragging Jon's hand from his hair, messing it up himself, leaving it a tangled rat's nest on his head.

"If you don't do something with it soon, it'll be Back Street Boys inspired." Jon ruffles the hair on the back of Punk's head, and kisses his forehead.

"What'd you care, anyways?" Punk's voice is soft, sleepy in the afterglow of his orgasm. Jon shrugs vaguely, his hand resting on back of Punk's head.

"I'm not being involved with anyone who takes fashion tips from Nick Carter." Punk raises his head to look at him confused, instead of asking, he just shakes his head, and sighs dramatically.

"Fine, I'll shave it off later." His voice is still soft, gentle, soothing almost.

"But I like you with hair..." Jon mutters, his fingers running through the messy brown strands. "Bald you look like you'll stab someone, now... Fluffy." Jon smiles against the soft, if damp, hair, pressing several small soft kisses to it.

"Go to sleep, Jon. You've gotta be tired." Punk's words feel like caresses, and Jon yawns. His eyes drifting closed, sleep creeping over him. He feels Punk move from on top of him, turns to try to catch the retreating form. "Gonna go get some stuff to feed you in the morning. Sleep, I won't be long." A soft kiss pressed to his temple and some indistinct words murmured into his hair are the last things that register with Jon before he falls asleep.

* * *

**l************************************ittleone1389, ********************************************************************************************Rebellecherry, ********************************************************************************************************************Brokenspell77********************************, ************************alizabethianrose, ************************InYourHonour:**

Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together once more, I'm lazy, it's hot and I'm avoiding marking. :-* Thank you for all the praise Colt received, it's quite undeserved, but I'm flattered and grateful for it all the same! :3 There's more after this a bit more, and Cabana makes his return briefly.

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	3. Apical Cell

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

"Well, I guess, but I don't see how that would help any." Jon wakes to sound of Punk's voice and a hand moving through his hair. "Ha, yeah... _Great_ idea, Cabana. What, well maybe, but that's not really the point is it?" Punk's fingers come to a tangle in the mess on Jon's head, and begin gently tugging at it, trying to separate the strands. "Fucking sort out your messes before trying to fix mine, asshole." Punk sounds mildly annoyed, and Jon turns to lie on his back, staring up at him. Punk smiles down at him, mouthing _hey_, before laughing loudly. "_No_, just all kinds of no." Jon snags Punk's hand and laces their fingers, resting their hands on his chest. He doesn't much like people fussing with his hair, and that's the _only_ reason he stopped Punk's fingers running through it, it honestly is, even if the worms in his stomach disagree. He closes his eyes, listening to Punk talk to his best friend, hearing the one-sided and apparently rambling conversation. It all feels painfully tranquil. Jon lies and waits to feel the itchy urge to move, but nothing comes to him. He lies there, his eyes closed listening, trying to make out Cabana, but all that he can hear is a vague jumble of sound from the other end of the line, and feels _content_. Eventually, he lets go of Punk's fingers and sits up, even if he doesn't feel the need to, he thinks he should be in motion somehow. He stands and pulls his clothes on quickly; vaguely puzzled over where the blanket that was draped over him came from, he's certain he's never seen the ugly tartan thing before.

"_Piss_." He says quietly, and leaves the living room, heading to the bathroom. It wasn't quite a lie, but the truth is he was feeling too _comfortable_ resting in Punk's lap, too settled, and that unsettled him more than he thinks it should have. In the bathroom, he stands staring at his reflection; the neatened mop of hair on his head is mildly disconcerting. He's used to it being a mess or wet and slicked back, order imposed by fingers, and time is not something he's used to seeing. He's not sure how long he hides out in the bathroom, ignoring the wriggling of his stomach, ignoring the way his hair is feeling odd, he'd messed it up once more, and now the strands feel like they're sitting wrong, as if they're folded at odd angles, and it doesn't feel _right. _Eventually he leaves the bathroom, returns to the living room, and leans on the doorframe. Punk is still sprawled on the couch, _still _talking to Cabana.

"No! I'm sending you _nothing_! Forget it... I don't care! The answer is and will always be no. King Wenceslas? Who the fuck are- Oh... Really? Honestly, can't we have _seasonal_ nicknames? Ha, well yes, but he's a fan." Punk laughs, something clenches in Jon's chest, something new and vice-like. Punk and the horrid physical sensations he causes in Jon might well be the death of him. "You mean serenade... I'm in Vegas, I'm _more_ that certain I can find a karaoke bar, Colt!" Another laugh, this time coloured with fond exasperation. Jon walks over to the couch, drapes himself over the back of it, leaning his head close to Punk's.

_"I can see King Wenceslas, now, all on one knee. I think the Grinch song is an appropriate ballad for a miserable bitch like you, Punkers." _Jon snorts, he definitely cannot picture himself serenading Punk, no matter how amusing the idea might sound.

"Go to sleep, Cabana. It's late." Jon pitches his voice loud enough to be heard on the other end of the phone, Cabana laughs loud and clear.

_"You're letting him away with such blatant gimmick infringement? I'm surprised."_

"Well... Do I _really_ have a gimmick anymore?" Punk muses and Jon can hear Cabana laugh again, a wry little smile settles on Punk's lips and Jon flops down on the couch beside him.

_Pay attention to me_. Jon mouths over at Punk, who responds by pecking him lightly on the nose.

"Yes, mom... _Maybe_. Yeah, yeah, I'll be home Monday. Water the girls. Be careful with Blanche, I think she needs more sun, move her round a bit. What? Oh, fuck off, it's entirely reasonable to name plants. Fuck you, Colton! Okay, okay, fine. Oh, blah, blah, blah, be good. Yes, honey, love you too. Goodbye. No seriously, fuck off. Pick me up on Monday." Punk hangs up, and tosses his cell onto the table. Jon stamps down the sting of jealousy at Punk telling Cabana he loves him, of course he loves Colt, they're best friends, _brothers_ even, more than likely, closer than brothers really, but that statement feels like it lessens the confession of love he made earlier. It might be that the _love you too_ is a stock comment Punk makes to many things, it might have been nothing more than a comeback, it might have been _nothing_ to him, not that it was anything to Jon. It's depressing how easy it is to lie to himself sometimes, though the worms refuse to let him believe his own lies.

"I told you your mom was chatty." Jon mutters pulling Punk to him, kissing him firmly, trying to impress something on Punk, trying to make it mean the something ill defined in Jon's mind to Punk. He leans back on the couch, and draws Punk to lie over him. "Can barely get him to shut up once he starts." Jon kisses Punk once more.

"That was a quick phone call." Punk smirks in response; Jon snorts, and snags the TV remote from the table.

"You were talking forever. If that was quick, I'm sure you're probably still having a conversation somewhere." He clicks the TV and starts channel surfing.

"Undoubtedly, in some alternate universe somewhere, we'll be having an important discourse." Punk squirms, presses a quick kiss to the underside of Jon's jaw, and twists so he can see the TV properly.

"About getting me to sing karaoke?" Jon steadfastly ignores the vice in his chest that tightens that little more with Punk snuggled up on top of him. Worms, vices, at this rate he's going to have a garage of minor maladies to attribute to the snuggling, nuzzling, cuddling bastard on top of him.

"Like I said... _Important_." Punk squirms again, and Jon shakes his head, clicking through the channels trying to find something worth staring at until he's tired again. Punk seems quite content lying on top of him, absently stroking Jon's chest, and Jon can think of worse ways to be spending their time, karaoke being the top of that list. They end up watching TV for hours. It should be painful in its domesticity for Jon. He's not a domestic creature by nature, so this should be torture for him, this peaceful sitting around doing nothing, but it's not. It's painfully comfortable, painfully easy to sit stroking Punk's skin where Jon had wriggled his hand underneath his shirt, painfully easy to lay there feeling absolutely like there's nowhere else he needs to be and that terrifies Jon more than he can explain even, _especially_, to himself. That night, in bed, Punk lies on his side away from Jon, and Jon spends a good long time staring at his back, staring and wondering things he doesn't want to think about because they make him feel foolish, and Jon isn't a fool, no matter what the worms and vice tell him otherwise.

The morning comes, and Jon finds himself plastered against Punk's back, his arms wrapped tightly around Punk's waist, his face buried against Punk's hair. He pulls away far quicker than he perhaps should have, Punk making a soft noise of complaint. Jon's hand reaches out to stroke his hair without thought, soothing Punk back to sleep automatically. He shakes his head and gets out of bed. He's not wasting another day in the house, sprawling over furniture and watching TV. He's been lazy enough, today they'll do something, the rest of week, they'll do something every day. Jon's mind starts planning, starts plotting where to go and what to do, how to react if someone spots them together, the potential articles in the dirtsheets, the rumours that Punk will be returning to WWE soon because he was visiting Superstar Dean Ambrose. It feels normal to be planning, it feels normal to be thinking ahead, trying to second-guess the World, and picking the scenario where he comes out on top. It's normal, it's familiar, and it does nothing about his vice/worm malady combo.

Over the next few days, it gets worse; it's getting to the point where Jon is vaguely convinced it's nothing to do with Punk, that instead he's actually sick. He makes a vague plan to talk to the doctors on Monday when he's back at work. The thought of returning to the ring makes the worms spring to life even with Punk snuggled on top of him, snuffling at his throat, all warm, soft and bastard confusing. Every random activity, every random outing, every random idea, and some of them have been very random, has been gone along with without complaint, as though Punk was letting Jon get something out of his system, as though he knew something that Jon doesn't, but if Jon is honest, that's generally the case with Punk. That dose of normalcy was strangely pleasant for Jon though, it feels like a strange extended holiday, and whilst he still perpetually feels sick, he's had fun. Only it's all over tomorrow. Tomorrow, Punk gets on a plane home to Chicago and Jon gets on a plane to Alabama. He's going to be denied easy access to his whatever Punk is to him. The idea of trying to define this _thing_ has been weighing on his mind, but he can't bring himself to ask Punk about it, can't bring himself to weigh in without Punk's opinion, and it seems Punk can't decide either. Dozens of times over the last few days, when they've lain on the couch, he's looked at Jon with one of those indecipherable, Chicago bred bastard stares, his mouth open to speak and changed his mind at the last minute. Not that Jon really minds, if anything it makes him feel better, if there's no decision from Punk, it means that whole _love you too_ incident can be ignored, accepted as just a Punkism, and that's a relief. At least Jon keeps telling himself that it is, because between the worms and his new found vice, he's certain that there's perhaps a part of him that wishes it wasn't.

"Last night of your holiday, whatcha wanna do?" Punk is sprawled on one end of couch, Jon on the other, watching him carefully, wondering vaguely if he should haul Punk over to him; Punk always seems much more content cuddling.

"Fuck." Jon smirks over at him, and Punk rolls his eyes.

"_Really_? Every night you've fucked me, you ain't got anything more original?" Punk crawls over the couch and straddles Jon's thighs, a wry twist to his lips.

"_Original_?" Jon laughs, rests his hand on Punk's head, and tilts it to one side. "I've got plenty of _original_ ideas, baby." He licks a stripe up Punk's throat quickly, before there can be any retaliation for _baby_. The sharp, little cuff to the back of his head comes as no surprise. "Ooo, _kinky_." He smirks at Punk who scowls at him, eyes narrowed. "You wanna play rough tonight, _baby_?" He chuckles, and pushes Punk backwards on to the floor. He catches himself awkward on his hands, and scowls up at Jon.

"You really wanna play dirty, Jon?" Punk's voice is a low, dark sneer, and Jon can feel a smirk on his lips. It's been a _long_ time since ill-tempered, capricious Punk has come out to play. Jon stands, offering his hand down to Punk, and hauls him to his feet once it's accepted.

"Gonna fuck you so hard, you'll feel it till I get back to you." Jon mutters, before kissing him, harsh and fast, teeth clashing, hands grabbing and desperate. "Gonna make you _scream_." He bites at Punk's throat, feels a low groan rumbling in his throat.

"Promises, promises." Punk snaps, and kisses Jon back, his hands tugging Jon's hair at the roots. "Bed, if you're fucking me, it gonna be there." Punk pulls away and pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it over his shoulder, apparently unconcerned if Jon's following him or not. By the time Jon makes it to the bedroom, Punk is naked and fingering himself open. Jon pauses, watching the scene before him. There's always a little part of him that's tempted just to _watch_ Punk like this, watch him bring himself off with only his own fingers, but that little part is always over-ruled by Jon's cock.

"You ready?" Jon asks, stripping quickly, and getting on the bed between Punk's legs.

"Feel for yourself." Punk smirks at him, something different in his eyes. "You think I'm ready for your fat cock, sugar muffin?" Jon blinks up at him.

"_Sugar muffin_?" There's no doubt in Jon's mind that he sounds bewildered.

"What, sweetness? You don't like cute little pet names? Aww, poor little buttercup, I guess, you'll just have to deal with it. That is if you wanna fuck my pretty little ass, honey cake." Jon blinks down at him, torn between laughing and cringing. It seems Punk is playing chicken with terrible dirty talk.

"Oh, I want your sweet little ass, Punkin." Jon leans over and nips at Punk's throat, snagging the lube, coating a couple of his fingers and easing one in alongside Punk's own.

"_Punkin_?" Punk's eyebrow twitches at that particular pet name, and Jon laughs at him, rubbing over his prostate gently, making him moan and lose grip of his irritation.

"That's it Punkin pie, lemme hear the pretty little noises you make. Sing for me, like a little sexy nightingale." Jon murmurs softly, watching annoyance and arousal warring in Punk's eyes. He started this little game, he should know by now that he's playing with a master.

"Ooooh yeeeaah, that feels _so _good." Jon has to hold back a laugh, he's pretty sure Randy Savage impressions should be banned from the bedroom, the half-smirk, half-scowl on Punk's face says he'd agree if what Jon was doing didn't feel so good.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good, my little Jack-o'-lantern that you'll be begging Cabana for the other Poffo's number so you can get poetry tips." Jon pulls his fingers out of Punk, taking a hold of Punk's wrist, and guiding his finger out of his hole. Jon coats his cock and eases inside of Punk. "Gonna _savage_ this ass of yours, baby."

"Oh fuck, _chicken_!" Punk groans, and Jon laughs, leans down and nibbles on Punk's throat again.

"I win?" He sounds smug, he _knows_ he sounds smug, but really, victories over Punk are few and far between.

"Yes! _Please_, no more Poffo family sex puns." Punk looks up at him, all earnest and shockingly sweet. "I can't take it, the normal shit is infinitely preferable to that."

"I hadn't even gotten to Angelo and his sit-ups yet." Jon laughs, easing a little further into Punk.

"Thank fuck for that!" Punk's legs wrap around his waist, and he cants his hips, forcing more of Jon into him.

"It was really good, don't you wanna hear it?" Jon smirks, and thrusts fully into Punk, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

"No! I _really_ don't." Punk moans, his head tilting back, baring his throat to Jon.

"Shame... I'll keep it for next time, hmm?" Jon laughs softly, and kisses Punk. The brief desire to fuck Punk rough and dirty has faded, in favour of wanting to take him slowly and gently. It's an unexpected desire, mostly because Jon can't quite remember the last time they had hard, fast, _dirty _sex, and that had really been the staple of their sexual interactions for so long, it feels like something Jon should miss more.

"Oh, fuck... Will it get it out of your system?" Punk smiles up at him, something oddly soft in his eyes.

"Maybe?" Jon had honestly forgotten what they were talking about, instead focussed on the feeling of Punk's tight body around him, and his deep eyes gazing up at him, the vice in his chest tightening with each passing second.

"Hit me then." Punk closes his eyes, and Jon stares down at him, briefly scandalised, he has less than _no_ desire to hit Punk. "It can't be worse than the Leapin Lanny one."

"Nah, forget it..." Jon brushes what can barely be called a kiss over Punk's lips and pulls back a little, before rocking slowly into Punk. "I'm not in the mood." He smiles down at a confused looking Punk, and kisses him again, all soft and ephemeral. Jon's not entirely sure what's behind this but, he's really not in the mood for anything crude right now, all he wants is to watch Punk come slowly undone, to see him unravel, thread by thread, as a result of Jon's actions. He rocks slowly in and out of Punk's body, brushing barely there kisses over his face, tasting the slowly building sheen of sweat on his brow, listening to the soft gasping moans he gives. This is somehow so much _better_ than a quick, dirty fuck, this quietens the worms into nonexistence, but the vice grows tighter with each thrust, and by the time Punk is coming beneath him, with a shuddering gasp, the vice feels like it's squeezing his heart into stopping.

"On your back?" Punk gazes up at him, eyes soft and hazy, the vice in his chest manages to clench a little tighter. Jon nods and pulls out of Punk, flopping onto his back, and catching the hand Punk had come over. Jon's sure it's habit that makes his lap Punk's cum from his fingers, habit and not fondness for the way those long, slender fingers taste covered in cum. Punk arranges himself between Jon's legs and sucks his cock down. Jon's hips buck up, and his head falls back against the pillows. He's surprised that Punk is willing to blow him; he'd never expected Punk to suck his cock after it's been fucking his ass. The idea brings Jon a little closer to the edge, Punk is sucking the flavour of his own body from Jon's cock, and the thought of Punk tasting their flavours combined has Jon feeling slightly jealous. He comes quickly under Punk's ministrations, and hauls him quickly up the bed, kissing him hungrily, chasing their combined taste in Punk's mouth.

"Fuck..." Jon pulls back eventually, loosening but not releasing his grip on Punk's hair. "That was _good_." He smiles at Punk, and Punk nods slowly, eyes narrowed. Jon almost frowns, the narrowed gaze is a thousand things he doesn't know but in there, under the layer upon layer upon layer of unreadable, is that failing science project Chicago bred bastard stare. Jon breaks the almost staring contest first, closing his eyes, and letting go of Punk's hair. "Tired now though." At this Punk laughs.

"You're younger than I am, you're supposed to be full of beans." Punk moves from on top of him and stands, tugging at the blankets underneath Jon.

"I did all the hard work, you had it easy old man." Jon retorts half-heartedly, squirming so that he's under the blankets, and holds his arms out to Punk. He wants Punk close tonight for reasons he's not going to examine; he just wants to fall asleep to the feeling of Punk on top of him, safe and warm, bundled up in Jon's arms. Punk laughs, but comes to Jon easily, settling in his embrace without protest.

"Yeah, yeah, go to sleep." Punk nuzzles at Jon's throat, settling in his arms easily, falling asleep without difficulty. Jon lies awake stroking his hair for a long time, lies there and quietly enjoys not feeling sick for a change.

"Wakey-wakey." Jon wakes up to the scent of coffee and a fully dressed Punk, sitting perched on the edge of the bed, a lazily satisfied grin on his face. "C'mon sleeping beauty, if you wanna catch your flight you gotta get a move on." Jon groans, sitting up and accepting the mug from Punk.

"Managed to not burn it, I see." Jon mutters, sipping at the contents of the mug.

"Yup, I'm so _proud_." Punk smirks, and stands up, stretching and leaves the room. Jon stares down at the murky coffee and scrubs at his face. This is likely the last morning in a while that he'll have Punk with him, he's not exactly looking forward to being back on the road but it'll certainly feel more normal than these last few days. He finishes his coffee, and rolls out of bed, pulling on some clothes. Punk's flight leaves far earlier than his, a quick glance at the clock shows he's got maybe thirty minutes to say goodbye. In the living room, Punk is tidying up their mess, his packed bag by the front door.

"Gimme that cup." He glances up from stuffing takeout containers in a trash bag, and Jon shakes his head.

"I can wash dishes, Punk." Jon mutters, taking his dirty mug to the kitchen. _Domestic_, it all feels so domestic, and normal. It's depressingly bewildering, but this is the last day of this domesticity, this time tomorrow Jon will be waking up in a messy hotel room, getting ready to go to the next city. He's incredibly unsurprised by the worms, the vice in his chest is still taking some getting used to though, he's definitely planning a trip to the doctors tonight.

"Very impressive. Dry them and put them away before you go." Punk's leaning against the doorframe, a smirk on his lips. There's the honk of a horn, and Jon concludes that's Punk's taxi. He trails along behind him, watches as he pulls on his shoes and jacket.

"I was thinking..." Jon starts, but thinks better of it. It'd been asking Punk if he intended to be anywhere near wrestling that had caused him to go sulk at Cabana's before Mania after all, even if he was a Warrior fan, there's no point in asking for him to come to the tribute show.

"I can't." Punk says softly, shouldering his bag and stepping closer to Jon, his forehead resting on Jon's shoulder. "I'd... I _almost_ want to, but I can't." He sighs, and Jon's hands come to rest on his waist. "I'm sorry." He sighs again and Jon nods, by the sound of Punk's voice, he is genuinely sorry he won't be there.

"I'll pass along your condolences?" Jon makes it a question; he doesn't want to make assumptions. Punk nods against his shoulder, his arms wrapping around Jon holding himself tight to Jon's chest. They stand like that for far longer than Jon is entirely comfortable with, the worms and the vice in his chest seem to be working in concert to ensure that he never feels completely normal in close proximity to Punk ever again. It's times like this he wishes he felt the itch in the back of his head, but it never comes, he just stands there feeling slightly unwell stroking Punk's body through his clothes, until the blare of the horn of taxi taking him to the airport sounds again. Punk kisses him feather soft, and steps away, a bastard unreadable expression in his eyes.

"You know." He smiles slightly, cupping Jon's cheek, kissing him again. "I had a dog as a kid." Jon raises an eyebrow, slightly confused.

"Oh?" He asks, getting the feeling that this is another one of those sphinx bastard riddles Punk likes to pose.

"Yup. Come visit me? Bring flowers." Punk smiles again, and leaves. Jon stands uselessly in his doorway, staring out of the door into the empty hallway, feeling sicker than before, but relieved that Punk didn't ask him to bring him a puppy; he's not too good with animals.

* * *

**AshJovillette: **Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it! :)

**littleone1839:** More domesticity, and having a filthy mouth, slowly we're training that outta him. ;)

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	4. Basal Cell

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

The first night back on the job after the brief vacation, and somehow Jon isn't surprised to be told that they're getting a beating. Really, about the only thing that could salvage Batista's return is reforming Evolution, and about the only thing that Evolution could do feud with is The Shield. It makes sense, but doesn't quite change the fact that getting beaten up, even _pretend_ beaten up, hurts.

"Hey." Its boredom and an inability to sleep due to pain that makes Jon call Punk, nothing the wriggling mass of his stomach and the clenching ache of chest say will make him change his mind on that.

"_Hello? Thought you'd be sleeping._" Punk sounds confused, wide-awake but confused.

"I hurt." Jon isn't entirely sure what to talk about; he's not thought of any topics, not thought of any words worth saying, and the why of this call is becoming almost unavoidable.

"_Uh-huh? Why?_" Punk is awake but distracted, his response vague and succinct.

"Evolution." Jon returns the favour, somehow just having a sliver of Punk's attention is alleviating the worms somewhat, just having the sounds of whatever it is that's holding his attention drift over the phone line is making Jon feel a little better, making sleep a little closer. It's pathetic, really.

"_What?_" Punk's attention is suddenly on the call, his tone sharp and dark.

"Evolution." Jon repeats and listens to Punk take a deep breath.

"_Fucking idiots! God damn, fucking, short-sighted, vain, glory hound, bastard, fucking, moron, asshole idiots!_" Punk sounds pissed, livid even. Punk sounds like _Punk_, and it makes the vice clench tighter.

"It should be interesting, though, see if ol'Triple H can still hang." Jon forces a laugh, and closes his eyes, listens to Punk snort in some odd mixture of rage and amusement.

"_He doesn't hang, just buries alive._" Punk snaps, and snorts again. "_Sorry, you sound tired. What's up?_" He seems to have let go of his ire, and honestly Jon's glad of that, he's not sure he could listen to Punk rage without jacking off, there's something undeniably sexy about fire and brimstone coming from Punk's lips, but he's not really in the mood, he's too sore and too tired.

"Talk to me." It's not what he meant to say, it's so far from what he wanted to say, that he almost wants to hang up, and force himself to sleep, but then again he's not entirely sure what he did want to say in the first place, something less _stupid_, either way. Punk laughs softly at him.

"_Well, alright, but you brought this on yourself... So, I've won the Stanley Cup like a million times already, and Colt, he's damn sick of NFL '94, cause I keep beating his ass_." Punk starts rambling, his tone easily genial, and Jon closes his eyes, letting Punk's voice wash over him. "_So he goes and tries to find any other game. I swear he opens boxes of shit I didn't even know I had, but the only other cartridge in the whole house is ToeJam and Earl_."

"Uh-huh..." The urge to pretend to be listening so Punk doesn't stop talking is ridiculously strong, the last thing Jon wants right now is for this soft babble of words to end, it's like lying on a beach listening to the waves breaking on shingle, tranquil, peaceful, _domestic_.

"_It's even fucking older than '94, but according to Colt 'Anything is better than watching you play this fucking shit, Punkers'._" Despite them being so close, Punk really does do a terrible impression of Cabana. Jon's fairly sure he could do a better one, but not right now, because the worms are asleep, and he's half-way there too. "_So we start playing it, and we've been playing it since I got back. We're on level ninety-eight, and we've still got like four bits of this fucking spaceship to find. Ninety-eight levels and we only have six pieces... It might actually take forever to finish this game. We might actually still be playing when you come to visit. And these fuckers keep chasing me! I never wanna see another fucking ice cream truck again._" It's the last thing Jon is consciously aware of before he falls asleep, the rest of ramble he vaguely hears is something about chickens armed with tomato-firing mortars, but _surely,_ that has to be a dream.

The next day, Jon will admit he's in a mood, a _worse_ mood than usual. He's snappy, vicious almost, biting any hand that comes too close, regardless of its intentions to feed or otherwise. The worms seem to have liquidised, replaced with sloshing bile, and the vice in his chest is wound tight. He can't say why, because he slept fine, slept long and deep, and everything about the day so far has been mundanely ordinary. The only thing it could possibly be is, that this morning he'd woken up in an empty bed with his drained cell on his chest; the lightness of it had been painfully horrible. After those few days of domesticity with Punk, he needs to remember how to sleep in an empty bed, and right now, he's not sure he wants to but it's a necessity.

"How well do you know Punk?" Asking Colby is a desperate attempt, but Jon feels like he should at least try to puzzle out Punk's sphinx bastard riddle.

_You know, I had a dog as a kid._

He doesn't want a dog, he said that clearly enough, and really that would be far too easy a solution; the real answer will be something else, something more obscure. The main problem is Jon has never really tried to solve one of these sphinx riddles before, he'd always accepted them as hazards of fucking Punk, and forgotten them. Colby is a Punk fanboy, there's no question on that, he'd constantly ask Punk his opinion on his matches, every time they got to work with him, Colby had been like a kid at Christmas. So of all the people Jon is _close_ to in the WWE, his teammate/brother is the best choice to ask on the subject of Punk.

"Bout as well as anyone, I guess. What's the context?" Colby looks confused, eyebrows knit, mouth drawn tight.

"What'd you know about him and dogs?" It feels like the most stupid question in the world, the laugh that Colby gives, and the utter confusion on Joe's face as he approaches Jon and a half dying of laughter Colby, confirms that asking his friends was the not best idea Jon's ever had, and that possibly was the stupidest question in the world.

"Who and dogs?" Joe asks, tossing a bottle of water to Colby, and opening his own.

"Punk." Colby informs him, grin still on his face, and laughter still interrupting his words.

"Your woman is hard work, Jon." Joe laughs, sitting on the couch by Colby. "He wants a dog now?"

"No, I don't think so... You're both no fucking help, you know that. Fucking useless the pair of you." Jon slumps on to a chair and scowls at them both. His friends are no use, the one person who might be of some use, he doesn't particularly want to bother more than he has to, Cabana might be willing to play matchmaker, but it seems to be very much on his own terms, actually going with a problem, or a question would cheating in this game of wits, at least that's what Jon thinks, the rules the Second City Saints play by, really, are only known by them.

He gets one day free that week, one day and he spends far too much of it getting from O'Hare to the flower store in Chicago. The old lady recognises him, greets him with a smile, and he manages something almost like one in response.

"The usual?" She laughs and starts arranging the cheerfully yellow flowers into a bouquet. "How is your gentleman friend?" She smiles again and Jon rubs his eyes, he's tired, and he shouldn't have bothered coming all this way for what'll be only a few hours, all he'll have time to do is give Punk his flowers, and sleep. Yet the thought of not coming to Chicago hadn't crossed his mind till he paying the old lady.

At Punk's place he rings the doorbell and waits, flowers gripped in his hand, his bag heavy on his shoulder.

"_Who is it_?" It's actually a surprise that Punk answers the intercom, Jon had gotten used to Cabana being doorman.

"Open the door, Punkin." Jon laughs at the indignant snort of annoyance. He's sure it doesn't take this long for the mechanism to open the door, though perhaps, Punk's hatred of pet names is leaving him to sleep outside. The door opens eventually, and standing in front of him is Punk, slightly out of breath but grinning.

"Hi!" He pulls Jon into a hug, then holds him out at arm's length. "You tired? C'mon, I'll feed you then you can sleep." He ushers Jon inside, closing the door behind them. Once it's closed, Jon Pulls Punk to him, bundles him up in a hug, his face pressed against Punk's neck.

"Miss me?" He mutters, holding Punk close, vaguely concerned that the flowers might be being squashed.

"Hmm, I could be persuaded into it." Punk laughs, returning Jon's embrace just as firmly. "You missed me, I see, _and_ you remembered my flowers. Good boy." Punk pats him on the head as he pulls away from Jon, a smile on his lips. "C'mon, I'm sure there's food in here."

Domestic is the only way to describe how Jon feels right now, sprawled over Punk couch, stomach full. He feels lazily content, like a well-fed cat that's found a comfortable spot in a sunbeam to sleep in. The worms are at peace, though he can attribute that to the fact he's running his fingers through Punk's hair, the vice is tight in his chest, but that too can be attributed to Punk's hair.

"I need your help." Punk mutters after awhile, Jon makes an affirmative noise but isn't really interested, he needs to sleep, whatever it is Punk needs help with can wait. "Hey, no sleeping, help me, then bed." Punk stands, and offers his hand back to Jon.

"Urgh, what is it?" Jon lets Punk pull him to his feet, using the momentum to flop against him, arms over his shoulders, making Punk stumble under the extra weight.

"C'mon." Punk leads him to the balcony, and points to four large pots, each with a plant in it. "The Girls." He grins, and Jon scrubs at his face.

"Your plants? You need help with your plants?" Jon sighs, scrubbing at his eyes again.

"I do, I need you to help me take them in for the night." He smiles brightly, pulling some kind of ridiculous puppy-eyed expression. Jon grabs one of the pots and hauls it up.

"Where?" Punk points to spot just beyond the balcony door, with plastic sheeting spread out on the floor.

"Careful with Sophia! She's little." Punk snaps as Jon all but drops the pot down, it was heavier than he was expecting.

"Sophia, Blanche? Punk... Did you name your fucking sunflowers after the Golden Girls?" Jon takes up another one of the pots, being more careful this time, and sets it by the one Punk just moved.

"_Maybe_... It's reasonable." Punk mutters. "Dorothy is the one I need help with, she's getting heavy. Gonna need to re-pot her soon, I think." He sounds unreasonably proud of himself, and Jon shakes his head, getting the feeling that no amount of trying to reason with him will make Punk realise that this is a very weird situation.

Eventually, with the plants moved, they end up in bed, Jon lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around Punk, as he lies on his side, his back to Jon.

"What were you talking about?" Jon gets the feeling asking about the dog thing isn't going to help any, but it probably won't do any harm.

"When?" Punk asks, turning to face Jon, resting his head on Jon's arm.

"In Vegas... The dog thing..." Jon's fingers start absently combing through Punk's hair, his eyes still focused on the ceiling, not wanting to look too much like he cares too much, despite the worms writhing in his stomach.

"Oh! Well, I did." Punk shrugs, and kisses the underside of Jon's chin. Jon gets the feeling that he's not going to get much more than that.

"And you don't want a pet?" Jon asks tentatively, he really doesn't do well with animals, he's not buying Punk a dog.

"Fuck no, but I had one, so I always knew, you know." Punk kisses Jon's chin again, and turns his back to him once more. "G'night" It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, but Jon lies awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, having absolutely no idea what this pet dog young Punk had let him know. Jon lies there cursing Chicago bred sphinx bastards and their inability to say what they fucking mean. Eventually, he gives it up as a lost cause, and turns to lie on his side, tugging Punk back to lie more firmly against his chest. It's been a week since they've been together, a week since Jon's held him like this, pathetically he's missed it so much more than he'd realised. He buries his nose against Punk's hair and breathes deeply.

"I've missed you, sphinx bastard that you are." Jon mumbles, and Punk makes a quiet little noise, yawning as he wakes up.

"Hmm... Thought you'd be asleep." He grumbles and turns in Jon's arms, a sleepy soft expression on his face.

"You're so pretty, baby." Jon mutters, kissing Punk slowly, getting a little pleased moan in response. Half-asleep Punk isn't something Jon's tried to seduce before but it might be worth it if he keeps moaning like that. "How can I sleep when you're so pretty?" Another slow soft kiss, this time accompanied with a stroke down Punk's back, Jon's hand sliding under his boxers. "All soft and pretty. You miss me, baby? Hmm?" Jon squeezes Punk's ass gently, carefully treading a line between soft sleepy Punk, and more awake, more aroused Punk.

"Uh-huh, course I did." Punk yawns, hiding his face against Jon's neck, his breath warm and slightly damp. "_Sleepy_." He mumbles, and Jon makes a soft little agreeing noise.

"I know, I know... Where's your lube, baby?" Punk doesn't answer for a long time, and Jon is almost convinced he's fallen back asleep, leaving him with an uncomfortable case of blue balls.

"Drawer." His voice is quiet, hazy, sleepy, but somehow incredibly sexy. This isn't a side of Punk he's seen before, this fuzzily soft creature gently lapping at his neck is wonderfully unfamiliar. Jon reaches behind him and manages to fish the lube out of the drawer one-handed. He rolls Punk onto his stomach carefully, pulling his boxers down and off, leaving his ass bare, then sheds his own boxers.

"You sure, baby?" Jon leans over him, kissing over his shoulders, soft little whispers, more like suggestions of kisses than actual ones. Punk moans softly and wriggles his hips, just a little, just enough to let Jon know its okay. Whilst usually for Jon, that would be more than enough, tonight, he wants something more from Punk, wants to hear him say he wants this. "Punkin, you want me to fuck you?" Jon laps over the tattoo behind his ear, and feels him squirm again, still slow and sleepy.

"Yeah, want you. I'm sure, 'fore you ask." He yawns again and Jon nods, kissing his shoulder once and opening the lube, coating his fingers to ease one inside Punk. The prep isn't something he wants to draw out, but he doesn't want to lose soft sleepy Punk, so he has to, has to open him slowly, one finger gradually building to three with far more lube than usual.

"Okay?" Jon lines up carefully, and slides inside Punk slowly, a whimpering little moan leaving Punk's lips as Jon fills him.

"Yeah, yeah, good... Slow, 'kay?" Punk mumbles softly, squirming beneath Jon, drawing his knees up, so that he can take hold of his cock.

"Lemme." Jon mutters in his ear. "I'll take care of you."

"Can you?" Punk mumbles softly, the question sounds odd, almost given in sphinx tones, but Jon puts it from his mind and kisses Punk's temple.

"I'll make you come, baby, don't worry." Jon kisses behind his ear and down the back of his neck, to behind his other ear. "Make you come so hard, you'll fall right back to sleep." Another soft moan from Punk and Jon starts working to make good on his promise, fucking Punk slow and deep, stroking his cock in time. It's a long, quiet fuck, nothing more than gentle gasping moans and the sound of their bodies moving together. Jon's mind keeps lingering on that question of Punk's, _Can you_, he can't help but think that somehow it relates to the whole dog thing. Puzzling out riddles should be counter-productive to sex, but Jon seems to think better whilst fucking Punk, perhaps the brain is the most powerful sexual organ. Punk comes quietly, moaning something soft and wispy, something that could be construed as Jon's name. Jon comes biting his lip and trying not to over think what he _might_ have heard as Punk came. "Punk?" Jon doesn't shake Punk's shoulder, but he does roll him onto his back, if nothing else Jon made good on his promise to fuck him to sleep. He absently laps Punk's cum from his fingers, watching him sleep and feeling decidedly like a creep for doing it. "Good night." Jon lays down beside him, stroking over his cheek, until Punk's eyes open wearily, and he squirms over the bed to flop his head on Jon's chest.

"Go to sleep." He mutters, and Jon finally takes his advice.

Jon wakes to an empty bed; the way the covers are pulled up makes it clear that it's been empty for a while. He rolls onto his back and sighs, the house is quiet, deathly so, and this concerns him. There's always some sort of noise in Punk's place in the morning, either music or talking, something to show that there's people there, that there's life, but this heavy silence makes the vice tighten earlier than usual, and the worms writhe more vigorously than he'd like.

"Fucking Yeti!" Jon pushes open the living room door and stares at the scene he's greeted with, Cabana is sitting curled up on one couch, typing at his laptop, and Punk is sprawled on his stomach, swearing at his iPad.

"You're _still_ on the Yeti missions?" Cabana doesn't look up, and Punk throws a cushion at him, missing wildly.

"_Yes_, fucking god damn, fucking game _refuses_ to give me enough green ones!" Punk snaps, Jon leans against the doorframe and watches Punk as his fingers tap at the screen.

"I told you not to play it, Punkers." Cabana takes a sip from a cup, still focussed on his work, and Punk throws another cushion, missing once more.

"You shouldn't have fucking installed the bastard thing then!" He seems incredibly irritated with whatever it is that he's doing.

"If I'd known it was going to turn into the new Tetris, I wouldn't have." Cabana mutters, catching the next cushion that comes hurtling towards him, and throwing it back at Punk. It hits him on the ass, and Jon is more than a little impressed at Cabana's aim, especially considering he didn't look up once.

"Never speak of that abomination again." Punk snarls, and Cabana starts humming the Tetris song, several more cushions get thrown at him. He manages to amass a small arsenal of his own, but seems to be stockpiling rather than engaging in war.

"So... What's Tetris ever done to you, Punk?" Jon asks, smirking as Punk merely waves at him vaguely over his shoulder.

"Hey... You just up?" Jon walks into the room, and looks over Punk's shoulder.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He asks, watching Punk playing some hideously brightly coloured game.

"Candy Crunch Saga. I apologise now, it's my fault. I should've remembered about his addiction to block puzzles." Cabana finally looks up, and throws one of his cushions at Punk. It bounces off Punk's head, but he steadfastly ignores it, swiping at the screen angrily once more.

"I'm not addicted... I'll stop once I clear this level." He mutters, another cushion bouncing off his shoulder.

"You said that three hours ago, Punkers. You can't still be on the same level." Cabana closes his laptop and dumps his remaining cushions on top of Punk. Jon shakes his head, looking between the two of them.

"He was addicted to Tetris?" Jon's given up trying to watch Punk playing this game; he can't see the appeal in it at all.

"He was." Cabana nods, stashing his laptop in a bag, fetching the other strewn cushions back, adding them to the pile on top of Punk's back. "On an _old_ game boy, one of the grey ones, you know?" He pauses, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement from Jon, getting a quick nod, and carries on with the story. "He took it everywhere, and I mean _everywhere_ with him." At this Punk makes an affronted noise.

"Not everywhere!" He's still playing, seemingly taking his game _very_ seriously.

"The bathroom, Punkers." Cabana intones gravely. "Ace had to confiscate it in the end." Cabana kicks at Punk's leg, clearly trying to distract him from the game. "Isn't that right?" Punk snorts and turns to Jon.

"Lies, don't believe him." There's a soft smile on Punk's lips, and Jon can feel an answering one on his face.

"C'mon, Gravy, you can _see_ that Punkers needs a twelve step plan for block puzzle addiction. You believe me, don't you?" Cabana slings his bag over his shoulder, and grins at Jon. Jon stares at him, confusion reigning, _Gravy_ is a new one on him; he's going to need to ask the etymology of it.

"Before you answer that, consider who sucks your cock." Punk snaps, eyes still down.

"Hey, I could! I might give awesome head for all you know." Cabana laughs, kicking at Punk's leg again.

"Cabana, if you gave awesome head, we'd still be working in the same company." Jon mutters, glancing up from staring at the top of Punk's bowed head, to see Cabana's mouth flapping like a fish.

"Oooo, _burn_." Punk laughs, and holds his fist out to Jon for a bump, still focused on his game.

"Thank you, thank you." Jon grants the fist bump and smirks at Cabana, as he doffs the side of his head, conceding this round to Jon.

"Gimme that, Punkers." He reaches for the iPad, managing to pry it from Punk's clawing fingers.

"Hey, I was playing that!" He looks over a Jon, pulling some kind of pitiful little face. "Stick up for me." He adopts an odd falsetto, and Jon shakes his head. The sphinx bastard is a ridiculous thing more often than not.

"This is coming home with me. It's already becoming the new Tetris." Cabana laughs, and leaves the room. "I don't wanna have to call Ace, but I will. You _know_ I will!"

"I really wasn't addicted to Tetris." Punk turns to Jon, some painfully earnest expression on his face. Jon nods and pats him on the head, he's no doubts that Punk suffered from a crippling Tetris addiction in his youth.

"The bathroom, Punkers, the fucking bathroom!" Cabana's voice is laced with exasperated fondness.

"I didn't... Well okay, one time, but I was really far." Punk rubs the back of his neck, and Jon laughs at him, ruffling his hair up.

"Pay attention to your boyfriend." Cabana pokes his head round the door, a smirk on his face. "Otherwise, I'll show him just how good my sucking is." He winks and Punk throws a cushion at him, smacking him dead in the face.

"Asshole! Fuck off, never darken my door again!" Punk stands, another cushion in his hand.

"Bye-bye, bitch! See you tomorrow, jog round the park?" Jon shakes his head as Cabana disappears down the corridor.

"Fuck off! Yes... Twelve-ish?" Punk calls after him, still standing, tossing the cushion from hand to hand.

"Gladly. If you're awake, text me." Punk snorts and throws the cushion to Jon, going to fetch the one that hit Cabana in the face.

"Good! I will... Piss off." He all but shouts, head round the living room door.

"Yeah, yeah, love you honey." The sound of an exaggerated smack of a kiss accompanies that, and Jon stamps down a sting of foolish jealousy. They're friends, nothing more, nothing to be jealous of in the least.

"Love you too, sweetie, don't come back." Punk turns from the door, smiling at Jon, as he comes closer to him and wraps his arms around him in a hug, swaying gently from foot to foot.

"Tomorrow then?" By the sounds of things, Cabana must be at the front door, probably shouting up at Punk.

"Yes. Goodbye, asshole." Punk steps away from Jon, smiling still.

"Later, bitch." Drifts up the stairs, along with the sound of the front door closing. Punk shakes his head and flops down on the couch again, making grabby hands at Jon.

"Such a touching and sweet friendship." He mutters, kneeling down by the couch, catching Punk's chin and kissing him softly.

"Oh yeah, the best. Blah, blah, blah." Punk kisses him firmly, his hands tangling in Jon's hair. "How long you staying for?" He smiles, eyes bright and happy.

"My flight's in like three hours." Jon mutters, kissing along his jaw, nipping at his skin.

"Seriously? There was no point in you coming all this way, Jon." Punk tilts his head back, baring his throat, moaning low in his throat as Jon nips and kisses down it. It's possibly true that there wasn't much point in coming to see Punk, but Jon can't say he's regretted this trip.

"So I'm your _boyfriend_, huh?" Jon mutters, nipping at the hollow at the base of Punk's neck, and wishing he'd not said a word, this might possibly be the stupidest question in the world.

"Uh..." Punk moans softly and, Jon smirks against his skin, it seems Punk's put no more thought into defining their _thing _than Jon has, or more likely he has but hasn't come up with any answers he's happy with, so isn't going to share his thoughts, again rather like Jon himself.

"Eloquent." Jon murmurs against Punk's throat, nipping at his skin once more.

"You object?" Punk gasps, pushing at Jon slightly, forcing him to meet Punk's eyes, heavy with a familiarly unreadable expression. Jon's not certain he _objects_ so much as he wishes there was a less juvenile word for it. Boyfriend makes him feel like a teenage girl, and he's sick of feeling like a teenager when it comes to Punk, sick of being so painfully on the back foot because of him, sick of never being able to plan, to plot, to map out the best-case scenario where Jon's on top, because of Punk.

"Do you?" Jon doesn't really want to confirm or deny anything; he's not mapped out a plan of attack for confirming their status, and doesn't want to be the one yaying or neighing on this, because at the end of the day, it always was Jon who ended up half-naked in corridors when Punk's mercurial nature took hold. Punk shrugs and sits up, his expression closed and unhappy.

"Honestly?" He sighs, and pats the couch beside him. Jon takes the offer and sits down, fidgeting slightly, before giving in to the worms and pulling Punk to him, tucking him under Jon's arm. "I got no idea, I've not _thought_ about it." Jon almost wants to laugh at him, because he _knows_ that's a lie, possibly the biggest lie he's ever heard Punk tell. He's thought about their thing, he's thought about it a lot, has worried at it like a sore tooth, Jon can tell.

"I'm surprised." Jon tilts Punk's face to him and trails a finger over Punk's eyebrow, down the line of his crooked nose, to tap on the end of it.

"Why?" Punk sounds genuinely surprised, and is trying to stare at Jon's finger, as it rests on his nose. Jon shrugs, taps his nose once more, then places a kiss there instead.

"Surprised to hear _boyfriend_ from your mom." He smiles, leaning back from Punk. He surprised for a lot of reasons, but the one he's offering isn't the main one, even if it is true. He is surprised to hear Cabana saying what neither one of them seem willing to say to each other, because really, this is some kind of childish relationship where neither one of them knows exactly what they're doing or what they want, and so boyfriend probably is a good fit. Cabana seems bound and determined to sort out their relationship, and Jon's beginning to think the reason Cabana is still single is that for some unfathomable Chicago bastard reason, he's decided to sort his best friend's love life out before his own. It sounds like the sort of dumb shit those two would pull, at least. Punk laughs, and snags the TV remote, intending to cut their conversation short.

"Well, we've established that Colt's _chatty_. He doesn't think before he speaks." Punk mutters, and Jon takes the remote, tossing it on the table. The problem with Cabana isn't that he doesn't think before he talks, it's entirely that he thinks too much, chooses words that have far too much influence over Punk and his actions. Jon's beginning to see that now and he wonders if Cabana likes flowers, he feels rather like he should be sending the other Chicago bred bastard regularly in his life some kind of gift.

"You gonna drive me to the airport?" Jon stands, he should get going really, if he wants to make it to O'Hare with enough time to scowl and glare at security.

"Nah, take the L." Punk stretches on the sofa, his shirt riding up, baring his stomach. It takes far too much willpower to resist him, but Jon manages, turning for the sprawled form to go gather up the few things he had time to scatter.

"I almost forgot." Jon was in the bathroom, stealing some of Punk's shower gel, when his voice breaks the silence. "Take the bottle." Punk is shaking his head at him, a smile on his lips, and Jon nods, setting the half-filled stolen hotel complimentary bottle on the shelf in place of Punk's full-sized one.

"Thanks. You forgot?" It's more than a little ridiculous how much better he feels once he steps closer to Punk and pulls him into his arms, his hands on his hips.

"Huh? Oh! I got you a present!" Punk steps away from him and holds out a toothbrush still in its packaging. It's possibly the least interesting present Jon has ever received.

"Thank you?" Jon stares down at the non-descript toothbrush in his hands, he's got a perfectly good one already packed, and isn't sure why Punk decided this was a good present in the first place.

"Open it." Punk sounds overly gleeful about this toothbrush, overly excited over something incredibly unexciting, but Jon does as he's asked and opens the packaging. "Here." He points to the little glass by the sink, the little glass with Punk's own brush in it. Jon shakes his head and puts his brush in the glass. As it clinks against the bottom of the glass, something dawns on Jon, this isn't about giving him a new toothbrush, this is about having Jon's toothbrush in Punk's home. This is at once _huge_ and tiny. He stares at the two brushes in the glass. It's just a toothbrush, though the worms, the vice, and the smile on Punk's face say something completely different.

* * *

**AshJovillette: **Sorry, there will be no puppies. :)

**littleone1839:** Slow and taking a _long_ time... ;)

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	5. Germination

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

"Okay, what is it?" Colby sounds unimpressed when Jon shuffles into the locker room.

"What?" Jon's certain he's done nothing to earn this mild ire so early in the day, all he's done is walk into a room, certainly not deserving of that unamused glare.

"This still about buying your woman a dog?" Colby sits on the bench, patting the space beside him.

"He doesn't want a dog. Gave me a toothbrush though." Jon forces out a chuckle and starts fishing his gear from his bag.

"A toothbrush? Man, for a millionaire your woman gives shit presents." Colby laughs, shaking his head. "Is it a cool toothbrush at least? Lemme see it." He holds his hand out and Jon shakes his head.

"It's at his place." Jon mutters, hoping Colby will miss the importance of that, because it feels like its important, far more important than just a toothbrush should be, but it's Jon's toothbrush, in Punk's toothbrush glass, in Punk's bathroom, in Punk's house, in Punk's city. A little bit of Jon mixed in with a whole lot of Punk.

"What we talking about?" Jon is beginning to be convinced that Joe times his arrivals into conversations about Punk to be when he can get maximum amusement with minimal serious business involved. Behind all that luscious hair, and charm, Joe's a bastard, possibly bastard enough to be adopted by Punk's hellhole of a city.

"Jon's new toothbrush." Colby grins and Jon stands scowling.

"Punk bought me a toothbrush, and it's not fucking funny or interesting. What're we doing tonight?" Agitation, the need to be moving, an itch in the back of his head, Jon's expecting one of them, all three wouldn't be a surprise even, but there's nothing. He loves this familial little team, it's something he's never had before. He's been feeling rather domesticated lately, and it's disconcerting. Joe looks at him, a big brother stern set to Joe's shoulders as he sits stiffly on the bench.

"In his place?" He asks, snagging Jon's belt and pulling him to sit down on the bench beside him. Jon nods, eyes narrowed, he's seen this side of Joe once or twice, aimed at other people, but never at him. "Hmm... It's a big step." Joe sighs, scrubbing at his face.

"It's a _toothbrush_, man. A fucking toothbrush." Colby laughs and stands. "Gonna call my lady. I don't think you really need to worry till he starts buying you nose hair trimmers, kay?" He laughs and leaves the room; leaves Jon with Joe in full-on big brother mode.

"It's more than a toothbrush." Joe says calmly. Jon fidgets beside him but says nothing. "For an evasive bastard like him and an emotionally stunted asshole like you... It's practically a marriage proposal." Jon springs back to his feet.

"It's a toothbrush, man... Not fucking marriage." He starts pacing the room and Joe laughs.

"Hyperbole, sit down." Joe pats the bench beside him.

"Fucking hyperbole, where the fuck you learn words like that? Fucking meathead." Jon sits heavily, scrubbing at his face.

"I went to college." Joe laughs again, rooting through his bag, hunting for something or another.

"You played football." Jon smiles slightly, watching Joe's shitty last minute packing thwart him once more. If you learn nothing on the Indys, it's how to pack quickly and well.

"Still went to classes, learned me some fancy words. Least my woman doesn't have to give me fucking grammar lessons all the time... Fuck." Joe scowls down at the bag, he's forgotten something _again_, the exciting mystery will be what is it this time?

"Not everyone is as obsessed as Punk, I guess." Jon tucks his feet up on the bench, his knees under his chin, he feels like a little kid sitting like this and that's not a good thing. Sitting like this, it's got no good memories attached to it if nothing else. The worms are writhing, feeling more like leviathans; the vice winched tight in his chest. "You think it's more, too?" Joe nods in response, some odd thoughtful look on his face.

"The dog thing... Tell it to me again." He says after awhile.

"He said he had a dog as a kid, so he always knew. I got no fucking clue what the hell having a dog is supposed to tell him." Jon scowls, his cell vibrates in his pocket, nothing more than a text message.

"Second bit's new..." Joe mutters, Jon nods again, fishing his cell out of his pocket. It's a picture message showing a ridiculously dirty, but proud looking Punk standing by the biggest of his sunflowers in a shiny new pot. The worms settle a bit at the sight of him, but the vice gets worse, somehow tighter. When he glances up from the screen Joe's looking at him with an expression he's only ever seen on the face one of the Chicago bred bastards he has to deal with regularly. "Sphinx bastard, that's what you call him right?" Joe asks, the failing science project expression never leaving his eyes. "It's not that hard, I don't think." Jon scoffs, tucking his phone back in his pocket. "What do you have to do with dogs?"

"Not kick them?" Jon laughs, standing. Joe looks at him unimpressed. "I don't know... Walk them, feed them, brush their hair, take them to the vets, pick up their shit...Dogs are fucking hard work, I've never had one..."

"Sphinx bastard, indeed." Joe laughs and starts getting ready for the show. Jon's never had a dog, so he's never had to care for one before, because dogs, like relationships, are hard work. The Chicago bred sphinx bastard might have a point.

There's procrastination and there's putting something off for a more opportune moment. Over the next few weeks, Jon isn't sure which it is he's engaging in. He visits Chicago when he can, managing a few hours at a time with Punk, though once he managed two whole days. Two whole days where he did basically nothing but get his ass kicked at video games and eat cheat food, two whole days where the only malady he could really complain of was feeling a bit fat, two whole days where he was entirely, comfortably domestic.

The second return the WWE makes to Chicago, since Punk left, doesn't feel much better than the first, though the crowd seems belligerently apathetic this time. The _CM Punk _chants aren't as constant, more like intended stabs at boredom, or _The Authority_. If he were here, Jon thinks Punk would approve, or at least approve of the idea that his name has become the new _boring_, it'd probably amuse him no end. The match against Evolution went well, certainly got some good heat, and some great pops. The Shield are on the top of their game, they're delivering with whomever they get put up against, but now that they've beaten Evolution twice, Jon's not too sure where they're going next. He'd not object to a return to The Wyatts, there might even be more to this Evolution feud, but no one backstage is sure, so he can't be either. The lack of long-term creative vision always annoyed Punk, it's with a mixture of fondness and sorrow, that Jon can recall conversations about what Punk would do if he were booking. Fantasy booking never gets old, though Jon's certain that it more than likely has for Punk at this stage. Wrestling is one of two subjects they've not discussed. Forcing Punk to define his status in relation to both wrestling and their _thing_ is something Jon is unwilling to try for fear of losing this domesticity that he's unexpectedly enjoying.

"You sure he won't mind?" Colby sounds at once worried and excited, and really, that was to be expected. Jon knew what to expect from the fanboy in him, especially after proposing crashing at Punk's place rather than staying in a hotel.

"He might appreciate the moral support?" Joe sounds neither concerned nor interested in whether or not Punk will mind, but that's expected too. He never had that time on the Indys like Jon and Colby did, he might have been a wrestling fan, but he never was quite as invested in the Independent scene, was never a part of it, has never understood the importance of Punk for the other guys who came up the same way he did, was never a Punk fanboy.

"Moral support?" Jon asks, not entirely sure what Joe means, he's more than certain Punk won't have been watching the pay per view, won't have heard the cheap shots aimed at him, and if he did he won't give a fuck anyway, he doesn't need any moral support.

"The Hawks lost." Joe grins. "Your woman's gonna be heartbroken." He laughs and slaps Jon on the back. "Wanna stop at a Seven Eleven and get him some chocolates?" Another laugh and Colby joins in, slapping Jon on the back, a grin on his face.

"Or a gas station, get him some flowers?" Jon snorts and points to the bunch of yellow flowers by his bag.

"Already have the flowers." He smirks at his teammates, and laughs at them. "What? You're always calling him a woman."

"You seriously bought him flowers?" Colby picks them up, turning them round slowly, his eyes critical. "Not very _pretty_. I don't think my woman would approve."

"Mine either..." Joe shakes his head and hefts his bag. "So to your beloved's?" He smiles at Jon, and the vice in Jon's chest tightens._ Beloved._ That's what Cabana had called Punk in the airport. _Beloved_ isn't Jon's word for Punk, Jon doesn't have a word for him, and is more than certain Punk hasn't settled on one to give Jon. Avoidance, misdirection and sphinx bastard riddles are all he has from Punk. He runs his hand over his face, and grabs his bag. He's thinking too much, reading too much into things, words, they don't mean as much as his various minor maladies are telling him.

_U home? - sent_

It felt necessary to ask, though Jon honestly feels stupid sending the message once it's gone. If Punk's home, he'll let them in, if he's not he won't, or maybe if the mood takes him, even if he is home, he won't let them in anyway. He might be hiding behind the mellower and more indulgent Phil, but capricious bastard Punk _always_ lurks just under the surface.

_Yes. Bring me cheat food... I'm sad. - Punkin 3.14_

"Uh-oh." It's then that Jon notices that Colby is reading the message over his shoulder. "How close is the closest store to Punkin Pie's place?" He laughs, and Jon scowls, stuffing his cell in his pocket. He'd not wanted anyone to catch sight of how he has Punk's name stored in his phone, it's a private little joke between Jon and himself. He likes Punkin as a pet name for Punk, it makes him think of fucking slow and gentle in Vegas, makes him think of Punk's eyes soft and hazy gazing up at him, the look in them replacing the worms with something warm and soothing. It's a pet name that makes Jon feel domesticated, and strangely, it doesn't terrify him all that much.

"_Punkin Pie_?" Joe laughs along with Colby, and the urge to kick them out of the cab is strong.

"Assholes." Jon mutters, his teammates laughing even harder.

"It's cute though." Colby smiles at him. "Not that long ago, you were moping round like a teenager... Now you got cute little pet names for him."

"Very _cute_." Joe agrees, reaching around Colby to pat Jon on the head. "Do we need to sit him down and have the _talk_?"

"I think it's probably a little late for that talk." Colby laughs again, and Jon wishes that the cabby would hurry the hell up. He likes these two, they're his _friends_, his little familial unit, but murder is looking more and more appealing.

"You can't mean our boy here has been nibbling Punk's crust?" Joe sounds scandalised, his hands clasped over his chest.

"Licked the filling too." Jon laughs, if you can't beat'em, join'em.

Eventually, they stand on the doorstep of Punk's place, a pizza in Joe's arms, and Colby fidgeting, trying to look cool but falling miserably.

"Open the door, Punk. I come bearing gifts." Punk doesn't reply over the intercom, instead, there's a click and the door opens. "Gentlemen." Jon pushes the door open, letting his teammates in and kicking his shoes off, starting up the stairs. "Punk?" Jon leaves Joe and Colby, going in search of Punk, finding him sprawled over the couch, staring apathetically at the TV.

"Hey." He sounds despondent, his eyes not leaving the screen. "You bring me my sad food?" He looks over this time, a frown forming on his lips. "You distinctly lack gifts." Jon laughs and tosses Punk his flowers. "Well, edible gifts." Punk laughs and stands, wandering to the kitchen to put the flowers in water.

"You've got spare rooms right?" Jon steps up to Punk, plastering himself against his back. "You don't min-"

"Both of them?" Punk's flaps his hand in Jon's face, waving off the soft little kisses Jon was laying on the side of his neck. "I've got room." He sounds mildly resigned but not overly put out, as though he'd somehow been expecting this. "No talking about hockey, I don't wanna hear it." He turns in Jon's arms, kisses him once, and leaves the kitchen.

They spend the night talking anything but hockey, wrestling and the _thing_ between Jon and Punk. Joe and Colby carefully playing gracious guests, Punk playing benevolent host and Jon enjoying it far more than he thought he would. Sitting with his teammates, his friends, the men who basically _brothers _to him, laughing, joking, eating, it's comfortable, made better by the fact that Punk's tucked up at his side and seemingly enjoying himself. Eventually the others file off to bed, Punk showing them to one of the numerable rooms that Jon hasn't seen in this place. It occurs to him that he possibly should take a grand tour of Punk's home, should learn where each little door opens up to, but not right now, because right now, Punk is settling down beside him, shoving Jon over to lie on the couch, resting his head on Jon's stomach and picking some documentary on something or another to stare at whilst Jon strokes his hair and feels _domestic_.

"What?" Punk's voice comes as a surprise. He must have fallen asleep at some stage during the night, Punk's still curled up half on top of him, and by the feeling of the thing beneath him, they're still in the living room. Someone comes closer, the sound of them sitting down on the floor, a heavy sigh leaving them as they do. It comes as no surprise that it's Colby.

"I wanna talk shop." He says quietly, clearly trying to not wake Jon up. Punk moves, and sits on the floor. It took an embarrassingly large amount of willpower to not cling to him when he left Jon's arms. "They're gonna split us up... I was talking to a buddy in Creative."

"They're gonna split you up..." Punk sighs, his head flops back, Jon can't quite resist stroking his hair surreptitiously, one finger ruffling the messy brown strands.

"Heel turn." Colby's clearly probing, fishing for Punk's opinion on the situation. Jon can't say he'll be surprised if they do split them up soon, it's just a matter of _when_ not _if_ at this stage. Good things always come to an end. He's learnt, over the course of his life, that nothing good lasts. Good times don't last but bad guys do, to paraphrase Razor, and Jon isn't exactly a good guy.

"You'd best brush up on your heel promos then." Punk says easily, leaning slightly towards where Jon's finger is still gently playing with his hair.

"_Me_?" Colby sounds confused, surprised, _unhappy_, this wasn't what he was expecting to hear.

"This one is too obvious, Golden Boy's not getting turned, that leaves you, Mr Architect." Punk sounds annoyed, frustrated. Jon catches a strand of his hair between two fingers, rubbing it gently. "It'll be decided last minute and for stupid fucking reasons, but you... You're the one." Punk sighs again. "Stupid, short-sighted..."

"You sure?" Jon can picture the expression on Colby's face, confused, annoyed but accepting that what Punk has just told him is more than likely true. He trusts Punk's words far too quickly, Jon thinks, the worms ardently disagree, their churning neatly pointing out that all of Jon's planning and plotting for his career has now swerved in the direction Punk just indicated was likely for him. "So face Jon?" Colby laughs softly. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"They don't really want either of you, well not for top guys." Punk stands, and the vice in his chest clenches tight, the suddenness of it almost forcing him to give up this charade of sleep. "Roman... He's like a thorough bred horse, you two..." Punk's moving through the room, from where his voice is coming from, Jon would put him by the big window. "You're gonna end up in a glue factory, if you're not prepared." He laughs, the sound bitter, and the urge, the damn near _need_ to bundle him up is almost overwhelming. "Don't rely on them, they won't help you." There's the sounds of Colby standing, Punk coming back over to the couch Jon's laying on, still pretending to sleep.

"Thanks Punk. I know..." Colby starts and trails off, probably looking all kinds of contrite and uncomfortable.

"Hey, I'm Seth Rollins from the future. I gotta look out for my younger self." Punk laughs, and sits perched on the edge of the couch.

"If you're me from the future... What number am I thinking of?" Colby laughs, the sounds of him walking away, pausing at the door.

"Sixty-nine, dude." Punk tells him solemnly. "Be excellent to each other."

"Party on, dude." Colby laughs again and the door closes behind him.

"C'mon you, stop faking it." Punk taps Jon on the stomach, and he cracks one eye to look up at Punk, the darkness of the room making it difficult to see his face.

"I was sound asleep the whole time." Jon fakes a yawn, a smile on his lips. He sits up, squirming so he's behind Punk, and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Punk's shoulder. "So heel Colby? You really think that's what they'll do? Seems kin-"

"Like a swerve for the sake of a swerve? Pointless? Made up on the spur of the moment with no real thought or planning gone behind it? WWE Creative..." Punk rests his head on Jon's shoulder, baring his throat. This should make him seem so vulnerable, his throat ready to be torn into, but he always does wear vulnerability with such intimidating strength. Jon lets one finger run down Punk's bared throat, slipping it under the collar of his shirt. "WWE Creative... I'm sure that's an oxymoron." Jon chuckles softly in Punk's ear, then moving to nip kisses along his neck. "C'mon, bed." Punk is tense in his arms, despite the relaxed tone in his voice, tense and unhappy. Jon wants to change that, wants Punk pliant and content, his hands move further down his body, brushing over the front of Punk's pants, cupping him and squeezing gently. "_No_." He hisses and stands. "Not with your friends in the house." He offers Jon his hand, hauling him up.

"We can be quiet, Punkin." Jon takes the offered hand and pulls Punk to him. "You can _sing_ all soft and sweet for me." He murmurs, lips moving against the fabric of Punk's shirt feeling the warmth of his skin through it.

"Bed." He sounds slightly like he's relenting, giving in to Jon's attempts at seduction. Jon stands, kisses his way up Punk's throat to his lips. Their kiss is deep, tongues twining with each other, slow and fluid.

"So, bed?" Jon cups Punk's face with one hand, the other round his waist, sneaking down the back of his pants. He nods, leaning in for another kiss, still slow and thorough.

"Bed, for sleeping and sleeping _only_." Punk steps away from Jon and leaves the room. Punk has a point, sleeping is probably a better idea, he still hurts from his match earlier, and sleep will make it better, well somewhat at least.

He tries hard not to focus on the toothbrush too much as he uses it. It's a harmless piece of necessity. Words don't mean anything, gestures don't either, not really, combined perhaps they have more impact, but separately they're just things that have been said or done, the worms be damned.

Punk's already curled up asleep by the time Jon drags himself from the bathroom. He slips under the covers and lies on his back staring at the ceiling, listening to Punk breathe. There's things he'd like to dwell on, strategies he'd like to formulate, but he's tired, so Jon turns to lie on his side, wriggling one arm under Punk to draw him back against Jon's chest.

"Better not get spooked, sphinx bastard." He mumbles into Punk's hair. Punk makes a vague noise in his sleep, squirming a little before settling. Jon kisses the back of his head, eyes closing, arms tightening slightly around Punk's waist. "G'night Punkin."

"_Jon! Jon! Wake up!_" Jon grumbles in his sleep, willing the infuriating poking to his cheek gone. Punk is usually much kinder in waking him up, all gentle smiles and cups of coffee, but the weight resting on top of him is certainly Punk, so this isn't him trying to wake Jon up.

"_Quiet, you'll wake him up._" Jon hisses, cracking one eye open to glare at Colby.

"_Sorry, sorry but the car's here. We gotta go._" He sounds apologetic, staring at the way Punk is laying, his head on Jon's chest, the blankets pulled up over it, tufts of hair poking out from under them. The urge to pull the covers over Punk more, to hide him, protect him somehow from being stared at is as strong as it is stupid, and Jon ignores it stubbornly.

"_Gimme five, okay_?" Jon whispers to Colby, who nods and hovers at the door for a few seconds, his expression odd, something Jon's never seen on his face before.

"_I hope he's wrong_." He says and leaves the room quietly.

"Well, at least I know my asleep impression is better than yours." People should not sound so smug this early in the morning, Jon thinks, pushing the covers back from Punk's face, meeting his sleepy but amused gaze. "Uff, early mornings, I miss you not." He groans, and moves to lie beside Jon. "So five minutes isn't enough for the bye-bye blowjob I wanted to give you, but..." He pecks Jon on the nose and leans over him, rooting in the drawer on the nightstand, a quiet litany of expletives accompanying his search. "Ah-ha!" He flops back over Jon and holds up a key. "Ta-da!" He drops the key on Jon's chest. The way the vice clenches, the damn thing may as well be made of Nibblonian shit.

"This..." Jon clears his throat and gets out of bed, pulling his clothes on quickly. "This a key to your house?" Even in his jeans pocket it feels like it weighs an impossible amount.

"Uh-huh... Look..." Jon turns and looks at Punk, sitting up on the bed, his head bowed, hands wringing in the fabric of his comforter, _nervous_, he looks so painfully nervous.

"Thanks." Jon tilts his chin up and kisses him softly, his hands coming up to tangle in Jon's hair, trying to pull him back down to the bed.

"Jon!" Joe, unlike Colby, has no concerns for waking Punk up. "Say goodbye to your woman and get down here!" Punk breaks the kiss sharply, his eyes hard.

"_Woman_?" He snaps. "What the fuck have you been telling them?" Jon laughs softly and kisses Punk's forehead.

"Not a thing. I'll be back when I can, Punkin." Jon leaves Punk with a kiss, pausing at the door to look at him once more before leaving. "I'll text you, okay?" Punk nods, then flops back on the bed.

"Tell me if I was right." Punk voice drifts up from the heap on the bed. Jon closes his eyes; the worms writhe desperately in his stomach as he nods.

"Jon!" Joe shouts again, sounding more annoyed. Jon shakes his head and walks back up to the bed. Punk blinks up at him, eyes wide and confused. Jon grabs the front of the shirt he slept in and hauls him up for a fierce, demanding kiss.

"You'll fucking watch and _see_ if you're right, Punkin pie." Jon stares down into those wide, confused eyes. He wants Punk to watch, wants him to sit and watch, witness what happens, because if he is right, then tonight will be momentous for The Shield. If Punk's right, tonight is the start of their solo careers, and he wants Punk to have seen that. He wants Punk to be proud of him. That's what it comes down to in the end. He wants Punk to see him, to see his work and to be proud of it.

"I... I'll watch." A lazy smirk spreads over Punk's lips, his eyes narrowed, the failing science project Chicago bastard look in them, but for once it doesn't bother Jon, for once he's certain he's got an expression on that matches it, raises it even, because Punk relents, the smirk fading into a smile, his eyes softening. "I'll pay close attention and be fucking smug when I'm right, I promise." Jon nods once, kissing Punk on the forehead and leaves. "Bye-bye sugar muffin!" It's the last thing Punk shouts, calculated to be heard just before Jon closes the front door, locking it with his new key. The smirks he gets from his teammates almost makes him want Punk to be right, _almost_.

* * *

**AshJovillette: **I barely trust Cabana to look after himself never mind a puppy... ^_^

**littleone1839:** Toothbrushes are surprisingly integral to relationships! :3 Tencent are in agreement with the people who make CCS, I've seen it's horrors... I've gotten stuck helping a weeping unicorn...

**alizabethianrose: ********************  
**

**Rebellecherry:** They're evasive little things, desperately engaged in dancing the emotionally masochistic tango, or maybe the procrastination waltz...

**_Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed._**


	6. Organogenesis

_Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Profanity._

* * *

_Do I win a prize? - Punkin 3.14_

_U w4tch3d? - sent_

_Yes. Do I win a prize? - Punkin 3.14_

_m4yb, w3n eye g3t b4c. - sent_

_You spell everything wrong and with fucking numbers, and yet you still use punctuation? I fucking hate you. - Punkin 3.14_

_Sure you do. I should be over later this week, will you be there? - sent_

_p3rh3ps - Punkin 3.14_

_Oh fuck, how can you do that? Yes, I'll be in. Please delete that other message, I dub it peer pressure, and strike it from existence. - Punkin 3.14_

_l48r, punkernickle - sent_

It's a surprise, a good surprise though. He hadn't thought that Punk would watch. Though, honestly, Jon wishes he'd asked what Punk thought of his performance. The whole purpose of wanting him to watch in the first place had been to make him proud, but it would come across as needy, desperate even, and Jon can't help the feeling that he's already too needy, too desperate, when it comes to Punk, so he ignores the urge to pry further into Punk's thoughts on the matter.

"Did he say anything?" Colby, on the other hand, has no such impulse control, and as soon as Jon sets the phone down to start getting ready to go shower, he's bounced over, looking like a child itching to hear what their parents thought of them.

_Call me? - sent_

Jon sends the message off and waits to see if Punk will concede to calling or not. Colby stands there looking confused, even more so when Jon's cell rings.

"Here." He answers and hands the phone straight to Colby.

"Hello?" He says nervously. "No, no, he's uh... He's in the shower." Jon shakes his head, as Colby sits on a bench, tucking his legs up and practically grins at whatever it is Punk's saying to him.

Once he's cleaned, dried and dressed, he finds Colby still talking to Punk. It seems that any phone call Punk is engaged in, unless it's with Jon, is long and rambling. Colby glances up at him, an odd little look on his face.

"Well, you know... People are weird, Punk... It's just the way they are. Yeah, yeah... No, I appreciate it! Thank you. Ha, I'll take that as a back handed compliment then. Thanks again, man. I'll pass you over, he's finally out." Colby hands the phone over and heads to the shower himself.

"_Do I gotta talk to the other one, or is he content to live without a review?_" Punk asks, wry amusement colouring his tone.

"Roman doesn't care... It's Seth that wanted to know what you thought." Jon shrugs, stuffing his gear in his bag, the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder.

"_Do you wanna know what I thought?_" His tone drops, becomes much more serious, and Jon laughs nervously. The answer is very much yes, the writhing worms, the clenching vice, they make that clear but his mind protests that asking is too much like giving up too much of himself. Wrestling is the one thing that's sacrosanct to Jon, he's good, he knows he's good; he doesn't need Punk's stamp of approval. "_I was impressed._" Punk says plainly, after a long pause. "_That expression on your face... It... I was impressed... Proud... I know you don't need me to tell you but... I was, I am... You were great out there..._" He sounds so quiet, so painfully unsure of himself, and Jon stands there, his gear half packed and his chest swelling against that vice in it, swelling with something utterly unfamiliar that makes his heart race. "_I uh... You still there_?" Punk clears his throat awkwardly.

"Yeah... Yeah... I'm here." Jon mumbles, almost wishing the vice back, this strange elevation of his heart rate is even more concerning, but Punk was, _is_, proud of him.

"_Okay... Look, I gotta go... I'm uh... Yeah, g'night_." He still sounds so unsure.

"Punk, before you go... _Thank you_." The line goes dead, and Jon swallows heavily. _Proud_, Punk's proud of him.

The woman in the flower store seemed amused to see Jon again, had joked about him being her best repeat customer in a long time, had filled out his card without asking, and handed him his over-priced bunch of yellow flowers with a smile. Jon had managed to be _cordial_, but honestly, he was feeling anything but, he was tired, he was annoyed, and all he wanted to do was curl up by Punk. There are some things he knew to expect, some things that he knew were inescapable, but he didn't want to know them, had wanted to live in denial a little longer. He walked to Punk's place so he could fume and stew on Creative's decision for him some more. His mind was whirring, working overtime to plan, plot and scheme. Colby was set as the corporate sell-out heel, Joe was to be pushed as the next big thing, and he was going to be in the middle. If he'd learnt nothing from the last taping, it was that he was to be in the middle. He can make this work, he _knows_ he can, but sometimes, he wishes they'd not split him from his _brothers_ before they had a solid plan.

_Made up on the spur of the moment with no real thought or planning gone behind it._

That's what Punk had said it would be, and in the time after the event, that's exactly how it's felt. A kneejerk reaction to falling ratings. If they'd thought this through, if there was some long-term plan, it'd be okay but it's a pointless thought, serving no purpose other than to annoy him. So he pushes it from his mind, opening Punk's door with the key gifted to him the last time they'd seen each other. Inside he can't help but note the indications that Punk isn't alone. The shoes and coat of his best friend are present. He sighs and scrubs at his face. Two Chicago bred bastards in one place, at the same time, it seems distinctly unfair. Handicap matches are never fun, and the Second City Saints always present a united front.

"Look, alls I'm saying, Punkers, is you're gonna have to tell him sooner or later." Jon stands behind the closed living room door and listens, feeling impossibly unwell.

"I know, I know, but..." Punk sighs heavily; Jon can feel the weight of it from through the door.

"_But?_ You've been bullshit butting forever and a fucking day. Tell him or I will." Cabana sounds annoyed, angry even, and the urge to run away from overhearing this conversation comes over Jon, he's pretty sure that there's nothing he wants to hear going on in that room.

"_Colt_." There's a long break of silence, no sounds coming from the other side of the door and Jon's imagination conjures up images, horrid images of what Cabana wants Punk to tell him, images of them entangled with each other, of hands caressing Punk that had no business being there, hands that aren't Jon's.

"Punkers, he isn't a kid." Cabana seems to have changed tactics, his voice pitched more kindly. "Talk to him for a change, hmm?" Jon can feel anger building in his mind, a hard little ball of glowing rage.

"Colt, he'll get scared again." Punk's voice is so soft that Jon almost doesn't hear him, so coloured with something terrifyingly small that the ball of rage vanishes in an instant, in its place is the need to bundle Punk up, the need to keep him _safe_. "He'll run again and... I can't..." It sounds like Punk's voice has cracked, there's the sound of someone moving, and a _tiny_, _minute_ sob.

"Hey... Hey... It's okay... Fuck... Shh... It's okay." Cabana's voice is gentle, like a mother's, soft and kind. "I won't leave you, you know that. I'll be _right_ here, no matter what." Jon feels more than a little guilty for assuming that there was more going on between them, there's obviously more than friendship there, but it's not what Jon assumed.

"Fuck, I don't even know... _So_ _fucking stupid_." Punk sounds terrible, stuffy, definitely, like he's shed tears. "Being a girl."

"Well yeah..." Cabana laughs, then exclaims in pain.

"Fuck you!" Punk squawks indignantly.

"No fucking way... I've already been in the ring with Grief. I'm not doing that again." Cabana laughs and there's the dull thud of a half-hearted slap. "You're the worst best friend ever, you know that, Punkers." Cabana snaps. The noise of bodies hitting the floor, then laughter, loud raucous childish laughter.

"Best best friend in the World, thank you very much." Punk has clearly recovered from his episode. "Scott."

"Ooo, real name? What, Philip?" Cabana sounds amused, but the snort Punk makes is anything but, Jon can see the look of irritation he'd be wearing so clearly in his mind.

"Serious, for one second, it's all I ask." And he does sound so very serious, more serious than Jon's ever heard him.

"Yeah right." Even Cabana's comment, though possibly made in jest, sounds _serious_.

"I love you... And thanks." This isn't something Jon should be listening to; he can tell just from the tone, this is something private, something special between Punk and Cabana.

"Hmm, it's nothing, Punkers... What best friends do right? What? Oh, you sappy bitch, you _know_ I love you, man. C'mere." Jon rests his forehead against door with a sigh. He shouldn't have heard a single word of this, and he feels impossibly guilty for it, so guilty it cancels out every other malady he's used to suffering. "Tell him though, Phil. I mean it when I say I will if you don't." Something's bothering Punk, something he doesn't want Jon to know about because he's scared Jon'll leave him, something Cabana's convinced Jon's able to handle, and that somehow makes this situation worse. Cabana is someone Punk trusts unwaveringly, and Cabana trusts Jon to not fuck off and leave Punk when he needs him, which in turn means that Punk will trust the same, and honestly, Jon can't say he's got a great track record of not freaking out and running. He drafts some delivery company to take Punk's flowers to him, the card changed for a new one, this one apologising but with the split, he's busier, doesn't have time to visit Chicago, but when he does he'll let Punk know. He gets a brief message back, a quick _thank you_ texted to his phone, and the worst case of his maladies ever.

"Hmm, we seem to bump into each other in the oddest places, Miss Molly." Jon glances at the man who just joined him in leaning against the back wall of his motel for the night. He takes another draw on his cigarette and turns away from Cabana, grateful that it's too dark to see the expression on his face.

"I don't get it." Jon mutters, staring out into the darkness, wondering if the brief brightening of end of his smoke is enough for Cabana to see him by.

"Get what?" Cabana sighs, shifting, making himself more comfortable.

"Miss Molly..." Jon mutters, there's a lot of things he doesn't get but perhaps leading with a harmless one will get him out of this without being bewildered by Chicago bred bastard logic.

"Good golly, Miss Molly... I've been trying to pick a good nickname for you. Nothing's stuck yet, but the ones that are close... Well, they're not PG." Cabana's tone drops, cold and ill-tempered. Jon doesn't answer, isn't sure what to say really. "He's getting worried."

"You told me if I didn't love him to leave him alone." Jon mutters flicking ash from his cigarette, and longing to be away from this situation.

"He's not seen you in weeks. Flowers, phone calls, texts... They're not quite the same." It seems Cabana has his whole spiel planned out and no matter how unwillingly, Jon's going to be his audience.

"I don't know, I don't know, okay? I got no fucking clue what to do with this... This _thing_ we got going on! And what are you anyways? His own fucking personal cupid? How much does he pay you? It's gotta be a lot, cause there ain't no way a guy like you's gonna go stalking me round the fucking country having heart to fucking hearts by trashcans and piss puddles without a fucking substantial salary!" Jon screams, his cigarette tossed aside in favour ranting and pacing, feeling horribly like he's cutting a promo but knowing this is his life he's talking about, not his gimmick.

"You done?" Cabana sounds so mild, so utterly unimpressed, but Jon supposes half a lifetime of dealing with Punk would leave you unimpressed in the face of most people's wrath. He snorts disdainfully and lights another cigarette, the brief flare of flame from the lighter showing Cabana's face. He looks like he's just wrestled a show, tired, worn out, like he needs to eat, shower and sleep, probably still wearing his gear under his civilian clothes.

"No... I don't want to be." Jon says quietly, closing his eyes, taking a deep draw, and trying to blow the smoke back out in rings.

"He fucking should pay me, the cheap bitch that he is." Cabana chuckles softly and shifts again. Jon snorts at the comment but doesn't say anything, just smokes in silence. "There's two types of smokers that I deal with regularly." Cabana holds his hand out for a cigarette, and confused Jon hands him one. "People who hold it like this." He balances the cylinder between his pointer and middle fingers. "These people, they're usually middle-class, pretty well off, you know, had a decent start in life. The sort of people who stop before they get to the butt. If I was a smoker, I'd be one of these people." His laugh is tinged with self-deprecation, and Jon stares at cigarette, the light is poor, but the white of its paper makes it stand out. "Then there are people who hold it like this." He holds the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, if it were lit; the burning end would be sheltered by the rest of his hand. "These people... They're the fighters, the scrappers, the people who have scratched and clawed for everything they have. The people who are so afraid of being abandoned _again_ that they'll push people away, let them go, anything to keep themselves safe." Cabana offers the unlit cigarette back to Jon. "If he smoked, that's how Punkers would hold it." He says firmly. Jon glances at his own cigarette, held between finger and thumb, turned towards his palm, sheltered from the greedy wind. "Jon... You know." Cabana pushes off from the wall. "You know exactly how you feel, you know exactly how he feels, and I get that you're scared. He is too, believe me, I _know_ how scared he is."

"Why doesn't he make the first move then? Why the fuck aren't you giving him this Yoda bullshit, huh?" Jon sneers, feeling like a dog backed into a corner.

"He's scared." Cabana sighs and comes back over to lean by Jon. "It's easy to believe that if you don't do anything, nothing will change." He yawns. "Look, man, make of it what you will. I'm fucking tired. Just remember it's your balls on the line. Unlike Punkers, you ain't got a Cabana to back you up." He laughs and walks off, leaving Jon staring at the unlit cigarette in his hand.

* * *

**Rebellecherry, ****AshJovillette, ****l****ittleone1389, ********************************************************************************************************************Brokenspell77:****  
**

Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together once more, I'm tired, that's my excuse... But thank you very much! It means a lot to know your thoughts on this fic! :3

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_


	7. Differentiation

Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Smut, Profanity.

* * *

Cabana's cigarette has moved home to several different packs now. He can't bring himself to smoke it, not when he needs to think about what means. Chicago bred bastard logic is a damn tricky thing, but at this stage, Jon thinks he's getting used to it, or at least he's getting better at interpreting it. He's not entirely sure he does know how Punk feels, but there's enough hints, enough clues to give an indication if nothing else. _Love_, he is more than likely in love with Jon, and Cabana seems convinced that Jon is in love with Punk, and Jon, well he's not entirely certain. How can you decide if you are or aren't in love with somebody? It's not something Jon's had much experience with, there's nobody in his romantic past that's had this _effect_ on him certainly, but does that make it love? He might sign every little card with each bunch of those yellow flowers with _potentially with love_ but he's not certain that this is a potential he has the capacity to realise. This current situation though, it can't keep going on like this, he can't keep fobbing Punk off with excuses of being busy, not only for Punk's sake, but for Jon's own. Every day he spends without seeing him, every night he sleeps without holding him, the maladies get worse, get to the point where eating seems like a terrible idea because the worms will rebel, working out is atrocious because the vice in his chest clamps tight and he can't get enough air. He has to at least go to Punk, has to at _least_ see him, if only so he feels better. The next time he can scrape more than a few hours off, he has to go to Chicago; it's the only option really.

Punk's house is pitch black when Jon arrives. The worms in his stomach are rebelling at every step up the stairs and the vice is winched so tight he's almost convinced that he's having a heart attack. The living room is deserted, no sign of Punk in the kitchen or on the balcony, though Jon did notice that his flowers are getting pretty big, Dorothy's still definitely the largest of the four. With the majority of the place searched, he begins to worry that Punk isn't home, that he's out somewhere else. The only place left really is the bedroom. He pushes the door open quietly and peeks inside, relief overcoming him when he spots Punk curled up in bed. He almost sneaks in, and perches on the edge of the bed, his maladies settling, feeling better than he has in a long time. Punk's hair is getting longer, falling over his face, and Jon gently tucks it behind his ear, not bothering to fight a smile as Punk makes a little snuffling sound at being touched in his sleep.

"_Shh, Punkin, it's just me..._" Jon keeps his voice quiet, but still it seems like Punk is going to wake up, his eyelids fluttering slightly.

"_Jon?_" He croaks softly, eyes opening, a frown on his lips. "Didn't tell me you were coming home." He mumbles, moving over the bed and flipping the covers down. _Home_. It might have been a slip of the tongue but the word feels like it should be causing Jon to freak out, yet it doesn't, and that alone should be making him freak out. Despite this though, he feels calm, far calmer than he has in all the time he's been away from Punk.

"Yeah, I'm back." He leans over and kisses Punk's forehead, moving off the bed and stripping to his underwear, taking the spot Punk vacated for him. "C'mere." He pulls Punk close, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "You been up to anything interesting?" The question falls on deaf ears, as soon as he'd settled in Jon's arms, Punk had fallen straight back to sleep. "_G'night Punkin_." Jon closes his eyes and for the first time in weeks falls asleep easily.

The scent of coffee and a lack of Punk in his arms are what wake Jon up. He indulges his desire to lounge in bed for a few seconds, the scent of Punk all around him, swaddled as he is in Punk's blankets. It's been far too long since he was able to smell Punk; it was far too long since he'd held him. In short, he'd missed Punk. Last night taught him that, and the way he feels this morning relaxed and comfortable merely reinforces the fact that he can't really do without Punk for any real length of time. Not anymore at least, it's too _stressful_. He pulls on his clothes from yesterday and goes in search of Punk again, hopeful he'll be found quicker than last night.

The coffee scent is coming from the kitchen, and Jon snags a cup, leaning against a counter, listening to the strains of music drifting to him from, by the sound of it, the balcony. Out there is Punk, fussing with his plants, singing to them in a curiously soft tone when compared to the music playing. He seems to be in a good mood, focussed on his work, which appears to be plucking dead leaves from the stalks of his _girls_.

"You sing to your plants?" Jon leans against the doorframe and watches as Punk spins round to face him, something shocked but happy on his face.

"I, uh... It's good for them." There's actually a _tiny_ blush riding high on his cheeks as he turns back to his plants, and Jon can't resist the urge to tease him for it.

"Aww, no need to be embarrassed, Punkin, it's _cute._" Setting his empty coffee cup down, Jon steps out on to the balcony, stands as close to Punk as he can without touching him.

"Not embarrassed." He mutters, his back still turned, the little pile of dead leaves at his feet slowly growing.

"No? Then why you all red, baby?" Jon's arms loop around Punk's waist, holding him tightly. Punk growls low in his throat, and Jon laughs. "What?"

"Don't fucking start, it's not even twelve yet, and you just got here... I don't wanna have to kick you out already." Punk leans against him a little, relaxing more the longer Jon holds him.

"You're not gonna kick me out." Jon presses a kiss to the side of his head. "Your mom would have a fit." He laughs, and Punk groans.

"I'm sorry." His head flopped back against Jon's shoulder; eyes closed, an odd little twist to his lips.

"For what?" The temptation presented by Punk throat is too much and Jon doesn't even bother trying to resist trailing kisses along it.

"Colt Dr Drew Cabana." Punk laughs softly, stepping out of Jon's arms. "He's been harassing me, so I _imagine_ he's been harassing you."

"By some trashcans... He's a persistent fucker, your mom." Jon fidgets slightly and glances at the plant in front of him. "You want some help?" Punk shakes his head, waving Jon away, his attention focussed on the plants.

"Persistent is the _nice_ word for him... I swear, he's lucky. If I didn't love him, I'd gut him." Punk mutters, dropping more leaves on his little pile.

"You love him?" Jon hopes he doesn't sound as bitingly jealous as he feels, the odd look Punk shoots him makes him think that he might though.

"Course... He's my Cabana." Punk laughs and turns away, moving on to the next flower. "Don't you have someone you love?" The question throws Jon, makes the worms start roiling in his stomach once more. He doesn't answer, just sits on the low wall and watches Punk, watches the way the fabric of his shirt moves as he tends to his flowers. "Jon?" He glances over his shoulder, and Jon shrugs.

"Sure, I guess..." He mumbles, feeling on the spot and not happy with that in least. Something in Punk's eyes hardens, and he turns back to the flowers. "I... Uh... I'm gonna go for a run." Jon mutters, the air out on the balcony feels _sharp._ He gets the feeling Punk would much rather be alone right now. "You wan-"

"The park's nice. Quiet this time of morning." Punk doesn't turn to look at him, keeps working on his plants, dismissing Jon, rather like in the beginning of their ill-defined mutually beneficial thing when they'd finished fucking and Punk would make it clear that it was time for Jon to leave.

"I'll be back in a bit." Jon shuffles back inside and feels decidedly sick, the coffee in his stomach not happy sharing space with the worms.

He had intended to actually go for a run, really he had, but what happens instead is that he potters aimlessly around Chicago, wandering the streets and feeling unwell. If he's recognised no one says anything, and he's grateful for that. He's not sure he could pull off a pleasant fan encounter at this stage. He's been out so long that it's almost a surprise when Punk texts him.

_I'm going out to eat. - Punkin 3.14_

No invitation to come with him, just informing Jon that he's going out. It seems pointless to send back okay but he does, a _tiny_ part of him hoping for a message with when and where to meet to come in response, but it doesn't and Jon can't say he's overly surprised at that.

He winds up in a bar, drinking shots and skulking out to smoke with depressing regularity, more often than not joined by flirtatious other smokers who let him bum cigarettes. There's only one left in his packet, one that he can't bring himself to smoke, so their donations are welcomed.

_Will you actually be back? - Punkin 3.14_

The text message makes the vice clench so tight Jon feels like he's dying. He's not sure what he's doing here, drinking for no real reason, drinking on his own, drinking to get drunk, and to stop his maladies, only it's not helping in the least, if anything he feels worse than ever.

_On my way... Shouldn't be long, got distracted. - sent_

He flags down a cab, sitting in the backseat, concentrating on not throwing up. He's drunk but not so drunk that he should be sick, so this feeling can be attributed to the maladies. The journey is painful, by the time he's kicking his shoes off and locking the door, all he really wants is to find Punk and hold him, wrap him up in his arms and hold him tight, because there's something not right between them, something isn't how it should be. He flicks open the cigarette packet once more, seeing the one cylinder in there that had cradled between Cabana's fingers. Scared, they're both scared and they both deal with being scared in stupid ways. Jon by running and Punk by letting what's scaring him go, running in a different but just as obvious way.

"There's coffee in the pot." Punk's voice drifts down the stairs to him, he sounds closed off, emotionless. Jon sighs and stashes his cigarette packet back in his pocket, slipping his coat off and heading up the stairs. Punk's in the living room, curled up under a blanket watching something that looks like utterly brainless shit, but Jon isn't in the shape to object. He pours himself some coffee and tries to work out how to make this better, tries to work out exactly what's wrong in the first place, deciding the sphinx bastard on the couch needs to come with an instruction manual or something.

"You have fun?" Jon asks as he sits down by Punk, sipping at his coffee, focussing on the TV and not Punk.

"Did _you_?" He snaps back, his posture tense. "You smell like you did." He snorts dismissively, changing the channel, flicking rapidly through them. The rapidly changing sights and sounds making the worms kick into overdrive.

"Urgh... I'm gonna shower." Jon mutters standing and leaving Punk to his rapid-fire channel surfing, not getting any response to his leaving the room.

The water running down his back feels good, it feels comforting. He stands there, letting the water wash the suds from him, trying to work out how to placate Punk, how to make this up to him, when there's a slight draft.

"You out whoring? Huh, Jon?" Punk is plastered against his back, hands groping his chest, down to roughly stroke his cock, making him hard incredibly quickly. "You getting sick of me?" Punk's voice is all barely controlled anger and more than a hint of insecurity. A strange cross between a laugh and a groan leaves Jon. _Sick _of Punk, at this stage, Jon's beginning to think that'll never happen, and is beginning to reconcile himself with that fact. There's a chance that he might have finally begun to understand the point the bastard Second City Saints have been making all along.

_He got stuck in a relationship instead!_

A line from that text message Cabana let him read in an airport cafe so long ago. This is a relationship, he's in a real relationship and he's beginning to get used to that.

"You miss the good old days when it was just fucking, huh?" Punk turns him round, pushes his back against the wet tiles, and sinks to his knees, sucking Jon down quickly, bobbing his head, dragging Jon closer and closer to coming. The tightness of his throat, the bristling annoyance coming from him, it reminds Jon so much of times in hotel rooms up and down the country. He stares down at Punk, watching the water run over his features, plastering his hair to his skull, the crinkle of concentration between his eyebrows, the way his dark lashes fan over his cheeks. The sphinx bastard is beautiful, and Jon can't begin to work out how he could be so worried about Jon leaving him, getting bored of him, there's very little chance of that happening.

"Stop, Punk... Stop." It takes an impressive amount of self-restraint to pull Punk from his cock. Punk glares up at him, eyes burning in anger.

"What you already sho-"

"Stop. C'mere." Jon pulls him up, and kisses him, aiming for soft and gentle, but getting aggressively demanding in its place. It seems tonight, Punk is determined to make this more like one of their past encounters, and the way he's moving against Jon, the way his hands are demandingly harsh are inspiring Jon to agree and concede to those demands. He turns them round, forces Punk's back against the wall, nipping at his throat harshly, earning a sharp hiss for his actions. "You want it like this, baby? You want me to fuck you?" His lips moving over Punk's wet skin. "Tear up that pretty little ass with this cock?" Punk seems to _shiver_ in his arms and Jon pulls back to look at him. "You want me to fuck you, baby? Tell me that's what you want." Punk scowls at him and turns his back, his ass almost presented to Jon.

"If you're gonna fuck me get on with it." He still sounds so angry, and Jon closes his eyes, he can imagine the reasons for this rage, almost thinks Punk is justified in feeling it. Jon brushes his finger down Punk's crack and presses against his hole, is surprised to find him already stretched and lubed.

"You been playing with this hungry little hole, baby? You been thinking bout me?" Jon chuckles in his ear and thrusts forward firmly, his cock sliding between Punk's cheeks, the alcohol in his veins clouding his precision.

"Fucking useless _drunk_." Punk sneers, and the vice clenches at that, but he can't dwell on the thought, not when Punk's grasped his cock and held it still whilst he fucks himself on it. "Can you manage to finish the job?" Still brimming with anger and fury. Jon nods meekly, his eyes drifting closed at the pleasure of being inside Punk.

"Yeah, baby... I'm..." He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, doesn't care about it enough to even try. He fucks Punk as hard and fast, the way he seems to want it, nipping and sucking over the back of his shoulders and neck, revelling in the gasps and moans he makes.

"Harder." He groans, his head flopping back to rest on Jon's shoulder. "Fuck me like you mean it." Jon chuckles low in his throat, and rests his arm over Punk's shoulders, pressing him up against the wall.

"You want it rough before you'll sing for me, hmm, my little nightingale?" He bites at the side of Punk's neck, earning a loud moan. "Sing for me then." He mutters and fucks Punk harder, fucks him like this was one of those nights where he'd be worried about being spotted in a corridor sneaking back to his room, or seen in a parking lot skulking out of Punk's bus, and Punk _sings_ for him, his gasping moans loud and frantic. "Come, Punk, make yourself come." Jon hisses in his ear, and he can feel the moment Punk takes his cock in hand and starts jerking off, his shoulder moving beneath Jon's arm.

"_Fuck_." He comes quietly, and Jon stills as he trembles through his orgasm, then starts fucking him again, pulling out to come over his ass, feeling like it's marking Punk as his in some childish way. Jon stands staring at Punk's back, the rivulets of water running down it, washing his cum away, and thinks that this might have been a bad idea. No matter how good it was, because it was good, sex with Punk is _always_ good, it was still likely a bad idea. Once he's recovered, Punk gets out of the shower with an off-hand good night, and Jon feels horribly sick.

The morning is awkward, painfully awkward. Jon woke groggy and feeling ill on Punk's couch, the blanket tossed over him, and Punk sitting on the coffee table watching him, eyes distant and concerned.

"I'm sorry." Is all he says before leaving Jon alone. _Sorry _wasn't what Jon wanted to hear, not really. Sex isn't something he should be apologising for, especially good sex, but apparently, Punk feels like it's something that shouldn't have happened. He finds Punk tending to his flowers once more, watering them in silence, an oppressive air about him.

"Morning, Punkin." Jon walks up behind him and holds him close, kissing the side of his head, wanting whatever was wrong last night to have been forgotten. It's a new day, and his last before he has to fly to the next city. He doesn't want to leave things more fractured and confusing than they were when he arrived.

"Jon." Punk sounds pained, apologetic still. Jon sighs, and squeezes him tightly. There's one solution to this, one way to make it right, but the thought of it _scares_ him.

"We need to talk..." Jon trails off and presses another kiss to the side of Punk's head, feels him tense up, hears him take a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling it out slowly.

"I've some _stuff_ I need to do today." He says eventually, still so tense in Jon's arms. "I'll be gone for a while. Uh... Make yourself at home, I guess." He pulls away from Jon, leaves the balcony, the building, all without looking back once.

That afternoon Jon's sitting out in the sun on Punk's balcony, waiting for him to come back from his mysterious stuff based errand, judging by the swearing and banging when he gets back it was at least partially grocery shopping.

"You buy me something some special for my going away dinner, Punkin?" Jon smiles over at Punk when he appears at the door. It seems his time away has cooled his temper, or his resolve, something has changed with him, he's at least looking at Jon now.

"Yeah, I did actually... It's called food... I think you'll like it." He smirks back and starts fidgeting, his hands fisting his sleeves, as he retreats into the living room.

"What is it?" Jon trails along behind him, catching his shoulder and turning him around. Punk stares at him, all eyes and concern.

"So... Uh... You wanted to talk right? So let's talk, I mean now's as good a time as a-" Jon cuts Punk off with a soft kiss, if the nervous rambling wasn't a little much, the hand wringing and plaintive expression definitely were.

"We do need to talk, Punkin... I... There's something I wanna tell you." Jon has the rather grim feeling that he's wearing an equally pensive face, but as he sat out there on the balcony, he came to the conclusion that they have to be honest with each other. He needs to leave Chicago knowing _exactly _how the sphinx bastard feels. Punk steps away from him, folding his arms over his chest, a hard little look in his eyes. Its impressive how quickly Phil can pull the shutters down and how fast the hardened CM Punk can stand in his place.

"What?" His tone as hard as the expression in his eyes. Jon shakes his head and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, before stepping closer to Punk, crowding him up against the wall behind him.

"Stop it." Jon keeps his tone light; trying to work out what would snap him out of this. Cabana's point with the cigarette lodged in his mind. They're similar. They're jaded and cynical, all jagged edges and mistrust. What would work on Jon should, in theory, work on Punk. "It's something you need hear-"

"But nothing I want to?" Punk snaps, slipping from where Jon has him pinned. "If you're done here, go. I won't stop you." He makes a move to leave the room, and Jon grabs his wrist.

"Stop... Just stop, okay." Punk freezes in Jon's hold, waiting, tense, mistrusting, exactly how Jon would be in his place. "I... I'm not done here." Jon smiles slightly as a little of the tension bleeds from Punk, a little of Phil peeking his head round the corner, checking if it's safe.

"Good, neither am I." Though, not brave enough to come round it yet, but Jon supposes that's okay, he's not really sure he's brave enough to come round his own corner either.

"Good... I... Punk, Phil..." Words are one of Jon's strong points, he can cut promos with the best of them, but actually talking to Punk about their relationship is apparently beyond him.

"What?" Punk turns to look at him, _Phil_ brave enough to take a baby step out from behind his defences.

"I... You know this was easier in my head." Jon laughs and pulls Punk to him, kissing him softly.

"You love me?" He all but whispers in Jon's ear when they part. Jon nods, a tight little gesture, and Punk pulls away from him, some gloriously bright smile on his face."You _love _me? Ha, good... _Good_." He grins and Jon shakes his head at him.

"You love me back though." Jon smirks as he tenses up again, awkward stupid creature he is, like Cabana said, Jon knows how he feels, and he certainly knows how Punk feels, there's no need to be surprised or on guard. They're the same, Jon knows this is _scary_, and it is, but they need to be brave together, because really that's what all of Cabana's interfering has been about. He knows Punk inside out and back to front, which give him depressingly accurate insights into Jon, because for all he and Punk are different, they're cut from the same cloth, and that bastard knows how to sew far too well.

"I... Yes." Punk says firmly, eyes narrowed. "I love you." Admissions of love should not be given like an invitation to a fight, yet that's how Punk issued it, all bristling and tense, expecting to be shot down or worse.

"Okay... Okay... So... You love me... And I... I love you. Now what?" Saying it, _finally_ admitting it out loud feels incredibly good. The smile that spreads over Punk's face is infectious. Jon can feel a matching once stretching his own lips.

"Now... I guess I should feed you." Punk shrugs and wanders off to the kitchen, that happy little smile on his face. Jon shakes his head and laughs. They finally told each other how they feel, finally have their emotions out in the open, and the World didn't end. In fact, Punk's acting like nothing's changed, and perhaps for him it hasn't overly, even if the smile on his face, and the light in his eyes says differently, but Jon won't call his sphinx bastard on that, not when he _is_ Jon's sphinx bastard.

_Finally! Though, I did watch all those documentaries on castration for nothing... Damn. - Punkin 3.14's Mom_

Somehow, it's unsurprising that Punk has already told Cabana. The removal of the threat of castration is a relief, if nothing else, it feels good, and in honesty, Jon feels good in general. Punk might be acting like nothing's changed for him, but for Jon, for the first time in a long time he feels absolutely fine, no worms, no vices, no itches, no twitches, just warm, content, domestic and most importantly, in love.

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**Rebellecherry, ****AshJovillette, ****l****ittleone1389, ********************************************************************************************************************Brokenspell77, alizabethianrose:****  
**

Thank you very much for the reviews, ladies and gentlemen. :3 Sorry for lumping you all together once more, all I can say is I should be asleep... I really should be.

_And we are done here, confessions of love, official boo-ing, and dinner... Not a particularly exciting end but very much the intended one. :3 _

_**Thank you for the lovely reviews, comments, follows and faves. Your continued indulgence is more than appreciated! *^_^***_

_**Reviews, comments, concerns and asides are always welcomed.**_

_Got slashy request? Ask me and I'll ask you a million questions in return but there's a chance you'll wind up with something back. ;)_


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